The Light Inside The Dark
by KrazackLear
Summary: Syndra realises that, on her path, it is not she who controls the Dark inside of her, but the Dark that manipulates her, like a puppet. She denies its hold over her, and chooses her own destiny, and in that destiny there lies a certain blonde-haired girl who shows her the Light inside of all things, for both must be careful where they shine their magic, Light or Dark.
1. The Dark Grows

AN:

This is the first major piece of work I have ever written. I have written plenty things before this, and it isn't even the first I've uploaded, but before I'd realized this had reached 30,000 words, and damn, I think it's actually pretty good. There is one problem; I'm currently in the process of re-writing it. As such, I can't just dump it all immediately. This first chapter is a nice tease; a little taste of the good stuff. Enjoy.

BTW the picture from this story is from 'Sneakiss' on DeviantArt. Check 'em out.

* * *

No one knew who she was, the baby that had been left on their doorstep. The act itself was not very surprising; people, who couldn't care for their unexpected children themselves, often left them at the behest of orphanages. However, it was strange, for this place was no orphanage. The temple had been wary to take her in; not a one was adept at raising children, not to mention that they certainly didn't have the facilities for it… But clearly the mother had placed them here for a reason, and who were they to question the will of fate?

They regretted their decision within the week.

The baby had un-precedented magical potential. At this point in time children were supposed to be almost completely inert, and even if they weren't, entirely unable to actually manipulate the magic inside them and in the world around them. But this girl, this probably not even a year old baby, had already manifested her powers. Small orbs of magic orbited around her, every so often popping into and out of existence, especially when she cried or laughed. Strangely, more orbs phased in no matter what emotion or sensation. They had named her Syndra, after a hero that had started off using Dark magic, then turned to the Light and become a renowned saviour of many when she sacrificed herself.

This worried the minders for several reasons; the orbs were made of dark magic, shadow and death and wisps of void. Deadly, easy, uninhibited. Second, the fact that almost all stimulus released her powers showed them that the child already had a massive lack of control over her powers. This needed fixing, and they set about immediately trying to teach the child to reign in her power, stopping it from randomly sparking off and forming the orbs, and additionally tried to get her to draw from another source rather than Dark magic.

Every single method, technique, binding spell and focus failed. By the time she was three, she wasn't walking; she was hovering. A purple, Dark, glow had started to wrap itself around her. The monks had tried to get her to mimic their signs and gestures, woven Light foci into her clothing and toys, tried to dampen her magic with their own… All it had achieved was to anger her, causing her magic to flare further out of control, and by the time she was eight the child had denied them all power over her. She was grateful, thankfully, for they had raised her, given her food and clothes, so she allowed them their petty attempts to chain her down, soon settling into a cycle. She would wake up, get dressed, pray for a small time, have breakfast, discover a new interesting power or affect that had manifested, sit through several hours of rituals and teaching classes and learning magical techniques, remembering all of it, then lunch and the concerted efforts of the monks to control her, followed by shaking off their bindings with ease and going out to play.

The children, understandably, were both terrified, awed, and massively curious about the girl. She treated them much as a Queen would her subjects; useful, amusing, but ultimately weak. She recruited the few who were stronger and larger to her side, then lorded over the others. She played games by lifting the hapless fools into the air and juggling them, which was strangely enjoyed by the children… Of course, then she had been distracted by a bee stinging her and dropped one young boy straight onto his neck. The snap had echoed across the grounds, and everyone fell silent. Syndra had never seen someone die, had never had it explained to her, didn't know what had happened. She had seen bones break, of course, but never had the victims been so… Silent. She considered the fact that this child was likely incredibly brave to be so silent after what had happened, then yelled out at him to stand up. She could carry him to an adult, they could fix him, but he refused. She frowned, crossed her arms, an orb winking into life somewhere nearby. Floating over to the child, she couldn't remember his name, didn't care to either, her magic snaked out and grasped him, pulling him towards her. He stayed limp, like the fish she ate for dinner, his head fixed at a strange angle.

She realized that someone was screaming, but she didn't know why, shook the boy to wake him up. When he refused she sneered, called him lazy, let him flop to the floor again, when she felt a hand clamp onto her shoulder. She turned to face the village Elder, the leader of her temple. She saw that he looked at her the way one would a wild animal; wary, fearful, tense. He told her what she had done, what it meant for the corpse slumped at her feet and the boy's family, and how she could avoid this if she just learnt more control, more balance, in her use of magic. The boy was taken away when she wasn't looking, then she was taken away too, back to her temple. She asked if they could heal the boy; they replied that only if he was still alive could they. She asked for the spell, the technique, and was told she couldn't channel the right lore. They taught her anyway; maybe it would convince her to start channelling Light.

She snuck out after dark, incredibly easy when no one expected her to, and went to the graveyard. It took her a few minutes even though it was only on the outskirts, since she had only vague directions, and found the boy's corpse. She didn't know how; she simply wanted to find it and something inside of her told her. She cast the spell, felt the magic flow into and through her, then into the ground, and felt it touch something inside of the boy. He burst from the ground, moaning, and she quickly helped him stand up, asked him what he felt, that she was sorry. He didn't reply, instead staring blankly. In those eyes was little but death, and they glowed purple, but she didn't know why or what he was and was proud, proud of doing something good that no on had believed she could. She brought the small corpse back to town, shuffling and still broken, as dawn broke.

Suffice to say, no one was very happy with Syndra.

* * *

She didn't know why; after all, she had done what they told her she couldn't, had fixed him and her mistake at the same time. After a few hours of guarded watch, she was simply marched out of the village, no goodbyes from her guardians, no news of the boy, simply gone. They travelled for a full day and still hadn't reached their destination, and the trip was fraught with danger and fear, at least for the guards. When Syndra had woven the healing spell into a guard once more after he had tripped and twisted an ankle, it necrotized the flesh, rotting and melting under her power, and when she had poured more magic into the weave the man had stopped screaming and simply lay, still, dead. The other guards would have killed her then, she realized, had they thought they could, but they couldn't, for she was stronger than they were, and a queer pride rose up in her, followed by a lust for death and pain, trailed after by disgust. Syndra knew she could kill them all, easily, almost without a thought, and some part of her, new and terrifying, screamed and raged to do it, to tear and _rend_ and **melt** and _**kill**_ -

She opened her eyes as the screams reached her ears. The men were… She turned and vomited onto the floor, the writhing, melting flesh of the men, left on the brink so they could scream in agony for longer, sobbed and begged to die, to be put out of their misery, and when she tried in her shock to pull her power forth and give them their wish, it denied her, laughed in spite, slipped out of her control and into the forest around her. The trees wilted, died, the plants died, the small animals and birds and insects all screeched, boiled, and _died_. She thought of how to fix this, how to do something, anything, but every answer she could think needed magic and currently it was rampant, out of-

Control.

She grit her teeth and drew in her power on a leash, grasping it with the entirety of her will and pulling, reeling, coiling it back up inside of her, dragging it kicking and screaming and raging and _blackandmeltedand **death**_ \- And then she had it. It broiled inside of her in a way it never had, practically bubbling in her veins with the potency. She could feel the men nearby. Their pain, and their thoughts, even though they had stopped screaming and now simply lay there waiting to die, kill me -you did this - please God end - how could - help, and soothed them, wiping the slate of their minds clean. The thoughts stopped, but the pain did not. Their minds were gone but not their bodies, so she plucked those from the world and obliterated them, and only then thought to search them for where they were taking her. She sent out snaking tendrils of Dark power, feeling the devastation and horror she had caused, only eight summers old, and found other lives, other people, nearby. She started to set off then realized she didn't have to walk, didn't have to travel in the ways others did via paths and trails, instead rising into the air and flying.

She felt free, like this, and it was exhilarating, seeing the trees travel beneath her. She left that forever darkened, death-stained patch of forest behind, and soon could see the temple beneath her. She realized, as she landed, that she was keeping busy to stop what had just happened settling in, stop it from affecting her and making her question herself, and then realized it wasn't her that had thought that but the magic, it was trying to overpower her and push her aside, and she crushed it, pressing it into a cage, forcing it to obey her. She stood there for at least an hour as the sun set, thinking on how she had come here, what she had done, what she had been told and warned and prophesised to do; how it had come true, all in one blindingly rushed maelstrom. She stood and dusted her skirt, properly walking up the steps rather than floating, resisting the urge to just cut her ties to the earth, and knocked on the door. She was however still a small, tiny, girl; the sound barely made it through the thick wood. She knocked again, hard as she could, and her knuckles hurt, and when no one responded her anger flared and the cage cracked, her magic bursting through a dam to splinter and crack and then demolish the gate. It crumpled inwards, sending a cloud of shards and dust upwards, and she flinched even as her magic flowed to protect her, a bubble of power in the storm, and then it was clear and she felt the ties to her magic cut, and then she realized she had reflexively started floating again because she fell to the floor and bruised her knees.

A man stood in front of her, shirtless and lean, with a shaved head and a cultured beard, inscribed with tattoos and writings and scriptures, and when he spoke she missed the words. She was busy trying to draw upon her well again, trying to bring the magic forth from wherever it rested when she did not use it, and found she couldn't; a wall, stronger than her entire being, stood between them, and then she saw the small ties and threads leading to the man, to the monk, and focused on him and crap he's talking she should be paying attention, what was he saying? Asking, asking questions, so she stared blankly for a moment before slowly standing, once again dusting her skirt as her magic had failed and dust billowed out over her, before replying succinctly that yes, she was paying attention, and yes, she was indeed Syndra, have you heard of me?, and no, the guards hadn't left her and shirked their duties; they were dead. He was silent, then, and turned from her to the ruins of his door.

"Come in then, child, and let us start your first lesson."

* * *

She grew up over the next ten years under his tutorship, along with a small group of other students who had displayed magical talent, though not a one could hold a candle to her raw strength. At least at first. Where the other students could manipulate the elements into complex forms, creating beautiful artworks from stone and ice, elaborate displays from fire, and delicate manipulation of objects with air, along with many other unique forms of magic, Syndra's main talent lay in the complete and utter destruction of… Anything. Dark magic wasn't useful for much else, but a student in control could still have woven it into lines of power and draw, create pools of shadow and move them to pantomime, but Syndra could do little else other than blunt, sweeping gestures. Her talent dissolved down to three key forms; one was the creation of her orbs, which to this day still occasionally popped into and out of the material realm, small spheres of void energy that would cut a living being's ties to this plane, sucking them into the Void.

The second was in telekinesis; she could drag, pick up and fling anything, as well as, with a little effort, keep them afloat. She had, once, picked up her entire room and everything in it, dragging it into the sky, then returned it when Sensei had told her it was not appropriate. After that, she had taken to flying into the air by herself at night, ranging further and further away, studying and revising upside down as she slowly drifted on the air currents. The final form of her power was in imbuement. In almost all cases this manifested as it had before, with the guards; the cellular degradation of tissue, followed by rotting and necrosis, and finally, the destruction of both the body and the soul. This had proved useful in absolutely no situations other than killing, though occasionally that came in handy with spiders and other pesky insects. In rare cases, however, her imbuement could actually prove highly useful. It was, for example, what shrouded her in a purple haze, gave her eyes their hue, and later could actually be formed into clothing and basic objects, though if her magic was disrupted, it would leave her naked or on the floor or both, though even if she was knocked out the magic would sustain itself and protect her, its host. The only time it happened was when Sensei blocked off her magic when she did something dangerous or impetuous, or when he had to prove to her that she had no control and needed to gain some.

There were times that she resented Sensei for this. Not necessarily for nullifying her magic; she knew that at several points without it, she would wave gone too far. The problem was that he did in front of her peers, not that he had much choice. She was their ruler. She was superior to them. But her lying on the floor, naked, sometimes unconscious... That was not strong. That was not impressive. It wasn't embarrassing, per se. She was comfortable in her body, in her nakedness, and couldn't care less for the lucky students that saw it. The problem was that a Sovereign did not black out, naked, in front of her subjects. Nothing should be able to beat them. They should have total power, control, and their will should be iron. So when they can be reduced to a weak, powerless _girl_ in just as gesture, it ruins her image in both her own eyes and those of her subjects. It makes her doubt her powers, her own inner strength. And frankly, it should. That was a lesson that Sensei repeated to her every time this occurred.

A mage with proper control would be able to retain hold on their power even as counterspells were woven against them, as Sensei had shown her when Syndra had replicated his spell and seen it fail. For the first half-dozen years her power had steadily grown, but her control had not; she could perform greater and greater feats of magic, though mainly through momentum. As long as she didn't try to limit the magic that poured out of her into the weave or use great finesse, the spells went quite well. Of course, this meant that when trying to perform either complex or incredibly simple spells it went wildly wrong. She had great mastery over sorcery, being able to weave incredibly dynamic and complicated spells, but simply couldn't apply her mana in a balanced way. Sensei had tried to teach her, drill control into her, but not only did she resist but her magic itself, to the point where if it did go out of control, as it sometimes did, she would be entirely unable to reign it in. In those cases, Sensei had to cut off her mana, and it was one of those rare times when her magic stopped growing.

The other students had slowly learnt to weave greater and greater spells, to the point where they were almost at her level. They spent no small amount of time making sure she knew this, and Syndra had quickly become sick of it, being a girl used to dominion over her peers. She had stewed over their words for a few weeks, channelling her little control into purely denying the urge to dash them against the walls; as such, her prowess in magic had declined, leading to further gloating and teasing, and less control, until one day she truly didn't have any control left and, with barely a small, unintentional gesture, her rival was lying on the floor, bleeding and unconscious. Sensei had arrived as if he was watching and waiting, healed the victim, and quickly stripped Syndra's power before she continued. Kneeling in front of her peers, naked and with a unbearable migraine from the building pressure of her magic, she blacked out.

When she woke up, Sensei told her that it had been several days and the victim had healed completely. She had replied with scorn - she couldn't care less about that bitch - but had wanted to know how long until she could continue learning. Sensei had agreed, and from then their lessons were in private, with Syndra growing further away from the other students in distance, emotion, and humanity. Yet as time went on, over several years until she was seventeen years old, that once excruciatingly crippling headache slowly returned. She didn't know why, and Sensei told her it was unavoidable, so she dealt with it in the only way she knew how. She used a mix of stubborn desensitization and magic shielding to deny the pain. By the time she was eighteen, she was so good at it that when her magic was cut and she fell off a roof, breaking both her legs, she didn't even feel it. And then she channelled Light magic for the first time, which was a great surprise. The source of her headache is the denial of her magic, which, unbeknownst to her, is Sensei's doing. By so effectively blocking off that source of pain, she also cut off that source of magic. And, her body attuned to the spectrum of magic on which Dark took residence, grasped blindly for the next best alternative; Light. This magic, unlike Dark, was entirely benevolent and almost by itself wove the healing spell that Syndra always knew but could never perform. The flesh and bone in her legs healed and joined, and when Sensei floated down from the roof he nodded, as if he had known this would happen all along and was simply waiting. And then her mind broke, straight down the middle, into two perfect lives.

She saw both, two alternate futures happening simultaneously, and yet completely separate, mutually exclusive... Or so she thought.

In one life, she stood and demanded Sensei tell her… Something. She couldn't hear anything, but could tell that her future self was very, very angry. Sensei looked old, older than he already did considering he had lived for many lifetimes, and sad, sadder than he had ever been during those lifetimes. He shook his head gently, then spoke, and the girl in the picture answered and Syndra could see her magic boiling beneath the surface, barely held onto. When Sensei spoke again, Syndra did not reply, but picked him up and dashed him against the wall, cracking his head like an egg and sending blood and viscera spraying. Now she could hear, could hear the panicked yells of the other students as they rushed over, but that stopped when Syndra unleashed her magic on them too. Her rival did not survive, nor that girl's secret lover, but the rest she scattered. They were weak, but served a purpose. They would tell others of her, to be scared. And then Syndra raged at the heavens as her power overflowed, a tsunami of death, shadow, corruption… Dark. The girl, with barely a strain, tore the temple from the floor, Dark writhing and flexing over and under it, dragging it into the sky. She floated up to it, then rode it like a triumphant conqueror, back towards her childhood home.

The villagers there looked up into the sky, and saw that they, and Sensei, had failed to stop this tyrant from rising to power. The temple anchored itself over the village, the shadow it caused from blocking the sun covering every building. When Syndra descended to the Elder, who stood with cane in hand, she demanded something of him. He shook his head, simply, and she yelled out to him, and when he replied back in a soft, weary voice, he simply fell apart. It was like the binding holding skin to flesh and flesh to bone vanished, and left a pile of death and sorrow behind. She laughed in exultation, and called the villagers forth to her. She demanded from them her tithe, taking everything valuable in the village, and then set her sights on the next villager over , left nothing living or standing behind her. And the next, and the next, then the capital, then the world, and no one could stop her. And when Syndra stood, victorious, over the rotting corpse of that planet she turned her gaze upwards and moved to the next.

The pictures in front of her melted away and revealed her once more standing. In this vision, however, she did not speak first and instead Sensei did, and when she replied he waved a hand. Syndra exploded into glorious radiance; yellow and white Light glowed from her, showering the temple and the students and Sensei. She moved back to her village immediately, and the Elder accepted her and she grew up there, protecting them from some sort of invaders, living on as they withered and fell away. Soon no one was left that knew her as Syndra, the girl who had no parents and once raised the undead, but as their Justicar, protector and guardian. They prayed to her, showered her with gifts, loved her, but that girl was sad. And then, another girl came to her. Her parents were dead, she told Syndra, killed by bandits, and Syndra flew forth and destroyed them, tore them atom from atom and obliterated those as well in a fit of rage. She didn't know why; why she did this for a girl she didn't know and when she would normally capture them and bring them before a council, why she gave the girl a bed in her home… Why she fell in love with her, for she could see Syndra and not a Justicar, and made her immortal too, and they raised other orphans like them and gave them immortality and then far in the future it was just her, her love, and their children, and no one could tell her she didn't deserve it or deny her or confiscate it like a toy when she misbehaved, and then she made the worlds and the people on them and loved them even as they forsake her.

And then Syndra was brought back to her own reality, where she was floating slightly above the ground, magic coiling in anger in response to an unknown threat. Sensei stood in front of her, as indifferent as always, even in the face of death. And she realised, then, that he truly was staring at the face of death. In fact, there was the real possibility she would kill him, and she didn't even know why. Judging by the visions she had seen, they had spoken before she had killed him. However, she had spoken first, and, feeling a sentimentality and kindness and fear for what she could become she did not speak, instead having him break the silence, which he did.

It did not occur to her that in the visions she had been standing, not floating above the floor as her magic defied her physical ties.

Sensei spoke, then, weary and old and hopeful all at once.

"Your magic, Syndra, is out of control. Even you can see that. Even a child could see that." She recoiled at the veiled insult, even though she knew he did not intend it to be so and she was simply impetuous.

"Your headache, you still feel it, even now. I said it was unavoidable; I lied." Syndra was more shocked at this than anything. Sensei had never lied, had endlessly preached honesty and truth in all matters, even when she had turned twelve and awkwardly been told of womanhood and all its trials. If someone had told her Sensei would lie, had she seen it in her vision, she would have disbelieved it above all else.

"How… How could you? What else did you lie about?" She remembered herself in the first vision, as her magic roiled as boiling water in a sea, and consciously dampened it. He looked sad now, and old, and she realised that neither of those futures had come by but that the Tyrant was closest-

"It is me, Syndra, me who is blocking your power from growing. That is what is causing your headache. I have denied you your natural growth for the past few years, hoping you would gain more control-" and he was dead, suddenly.

His brain matter was grey, smeared over the ancient stones of the temple wall. She did not feel angry, unlike the vision, and then she lost concept of time and direction and life as her magic, for so long held at bay, drowned her. When she came to, she was once again kneeling in front of the other students, but this time she was not naked, her magic free to sustain her clothing, and she wondered why because normally Sensei would be suppressing her magic so that it didn't lash out at anyone nearby-

The smell of blood and viscera snapped her out of her daze. She stood, unsteadily, and her eyes flicked over to the sprawled corpse of Sensei. She smiled slightly, for she had done it defeated him he couldn't stop her anymore, and just as quickly was sad, for he was dead and she had killed him. She looked at her hands, and though they were clean she saw blood on them, and was sadder still. When one of the students attacked her with a lash of fire, she was startled more than anything. The offender was that prissy suck-up.

"You killed him! You… Sensei! What did you do?!" Syndra saw now that the girl was much as she was; angry, lost, uncontrolled. The girl dropped to her knees and sobbed, and Syndra realized she had been moments from obliterating her. Syndra summoned forth her power, having it enshroud her as much as any real clothing, and the grass at her feet withered and died, and the sky above turned dark and grey, and she rose into the air on Dark currents.

"I could kill you all, and you could not stop me," she whispered, and realized that thought was the Tyrant when she saw the students below her all staring in awe and fear, caught between running from a predator or worshipping it.

"Kneel," she said, almost without realizing it, and all did bar one, who had stood up on her command.

"No! NO! Get up! Sh-She killed him, don't you get it?!" Syndra pressed her magic on the fragile strings that held that fool's life from falling into the Void, and she gasped, collapsed, and started blubbering in fear.

"P-Please… Stop, you-you're scaring m-!" Syndra cut her words off with a thought, was an inch from severing every string and having her plummet. Something roils in her mind, crawling to the surface like a brew bubbling over the edge of a pot.

"You should be scared of me…" It is a realization, a surprise to her. The whisper doesn't make it to the cowering shapes below, and she repeats herself, screaming hoarse, voice charging forth and sending them bowling over like scarecrows.

 **"God damn _right_ you should be scared of me!"**

But then, answering her call as readily as her magic, she saw in her mind's eye the Tyrant standing behind her, whispering and pointing, and wondered then who was truly in control, and grasped the Tyrant and threw her off into the Void. The Tyrant screamed as she fell, but the dying girl in front of her did not, standing up and running instead. Syndra turned from them, ashamed of their weakness and her own, and floated back up to the roof she had fallen off of. The students scattered, and she was not sure whether to laugh or cry.


	2. The Light Arrives

AN:

The next installment, revived and revamped.

* * *

"I am alone, now," she muttered, and realised that truly, she always had been. For she was not normal; she had always kept above her peers, literally and figuratively, aloof and powerful, ruling over them. She had always been a Sovereign at heart; commanding with power and force of will, and she realized she would always be alone and with that thought… The first indication of what was happening was when the birds suddenly flocked away all as one, hundreds of them, and then a groaning as the earth resisted and tore, before a resounding _crack_ as the earth finally gave way, clods of dirt and grass flying every which way, and the temple rose above the ground on a Dark blanket. It flew as she did, slowly and with great menace, over the winding path which took her here ten years ago, and back to her village. It took an hour to get there, for Syndra did not want them to be alarmed or threatened, even though the only way they could have missed the ascension was if they were blind and deaf. The ponderous chunk of earth stopped a mile from the village, uphill, so as to make it harder to reach quickly though still well within distance for Syndra, the great shadow stopping halfway to the cluster of buildings. She swept down to the forest floor, was unsurprised to see guests waiting for her. The village Elder, now so old as to look like he might keel over at any moment, was there, along with three warriors; no doubt from the castle of Lord Rikmar. He was a Noxian turncoat, and had been described as both the runt of the litter and the alpha of the Noxian breed, depending on who was talking and who was listening. The Tyrant would have named him weak, the Justicar strong, but Syndra withheld her own judgement for now.

As she came lower the warriors became wary, to her sensitive eyes obviously drawing their magic ready for a fight, but the Elder simply smiled as if a wayward sheep had come home to the flock. She landed - as much as one who did not touch the floor could land, really- and smiled sweetly, with innocence only a young girl could muster, though the effect was mostly ruined by the Dark magic swirling around her in a vortex of restrained power. The fighters were yet more tense, and she simply shook her head. The three together would be unlikely to defeat her, though she was admittedly both out of practice and unsure of her real limits against actual, trained soldiers. She shrugged, slightly, and the warriors flinched. The Elder quickly stepped forwards and bowed deeply. Syndra hesitated for a moment, and then, overcome with memories of her childhood and emotion, truly dropped to the floor and bowed just as deeply. The Elder laughed, stopping as his spine cracked when he straightened. Syndra giggled, and immediately smothered it. She was not a child, not anymore, and Sovereigns did not giggle like children. The Elder spoke, and she took the time to examine the warriors. The leftmost was clearly Earth; broad and stout in both stance and build. The middle man was just as obviously Fire, thin and wispy and never still, shifting his weight side to side and twitching. Syndra could not at first tell what the rightmost was, but they were a woman with blonde hair peeking out from her hood.

She reached out and touched at her with tendrils of power, as gentle as possible, and recoiled as the Light inside of them lashed out and burned her soul. She flew back and up, interrupting the Elder, and could have sworn the small Light mage was shaking with restrained laughter. Syndra and the other two warriors were coiled, but the Light mage was relaxed now, and the Elder spoke up to her, telling her to come back down. She reigned in her power and noticed the other two mages looked to the woman for guidance. This time when she landed, it was in front of Earth. She bowed, and he warily bowed back. Before she could bow to Fire, he held out his hand in the Western form of greeting, and she took it. His handshake was rapid, over before she could tell it, as twitchy as the rest of him. She took her time sweeping over to the Light mage, examining her, and couldn't help but feel she had seen her before. When the woman pulled back her hood and revealed her face, Syndra knew why. She was the woman she had seen in her vision; the one who saved her, pulled her from despair, had stolen her heart. She was stunned in that moment, until she heard her speak, and to her it was as if the words were honey, and she missed them for the feelings they incited in her. She shook her head as the voice stopped, and politely inquired:

"Pardon?" The woman in front of her once again stifled laughter, and nodded her head in belayed greeting. Syndra was too distracted to feel insulted by the lack of respect, and simply nodded back, this time paying rapt attention as they spoke again.

"It is a pleasure to finally meet you. I have heard much, and seen more," pointedly glancing up at the floating island whose shade in which they were conversing, "and it is nice to put a face to the legend." Syndra did not miss the choice of words, and had to resist saying _it is nice to put a face to the love of my dreams,_ and instead replied:

"You have me at a disadvantage, for I have no idea who you are. Or, for that matter, your gentlemen companions." The Light mage smiled and nodded again, sweeping her hand wide to gesture at Earth.

"Roland, foremost Sensei of Earth." His chiselled face twisted into a smile that at once looked grandfatherly and entirely absurd. Her hand circled round to point at Fire, who jumped just at the small gesture. She did not hide her laugh this time, tinkling and pleasantly shrill.

"Lem. Part of Rikmar's personal retinue." Syndra knew that the way she omitted the Lord's title meant that she enjoyed his favour, or was family. The strange thing was that her blonde hair was rare amongst both Noxians and Ionians, but was abundant in the Demacian territories. This intrigued her, but a sadness rose in her as she realised that she would likely never get her answers, nor even meet her again… At least, not without having to fight her. The woman turned sharply to her, as if sensing her sadness, and she could feel the Light within them swelling to suppress the emotion. The Dark inside of her hissed and lashed out, but Syndra grasped it by the tail and leashed it. The Light magic could not sink into her, could not help her, but it made Syndra feel better anyway. Then she narrowed her eyes and backed off, floating into the air once more. She was surprised to see the sadness in the mage's eyes, and turned to the Elder.

"Thank you for your time. I will come down to the castle in a week's time, to meet Rikmar, but until then you are dismissed." She and the Elder exchanged bows once again, and then he tottered off. Earth and Fire backed off, following some hidden cue from the Light mage, and only then did Syndra realize she hadn't gotten her name.

"If you are to be so insolent, might you tell me your name?" The Light mage giggled as if she had made a joke, and whereas Syndra felt it was childish to giggle, it fit perfectly for the bubbly woman.

"Luxanna. Charmed, I'm sure." Syndra had to resist saying _you have no idea_ and raised an eyebrow.

"And your purpose here, after I have allowed you to leave?" The un-spoken words were obvious; who was she and how important was what she had to say that she would dare defy her order?

" _Lord_ Rikmar was concerned about you and your wishes for the land, and sent me to parley. Seeing as how you are to go to the castle in a week and the journey there takes almost a full day by foot, I was hoping you would see fit to lend me a room?" Syndra had to concentrate hard to read her hidden meanings; the emphasis of Lord referred to her omission of it, the parley further reinforcing that she had the ear of Rikmar, and the fact that the soldiers had gotten here within the time it took her castle to despite the trip being a day long represented that they had great magic at their whim. She allowed herself to laugh then, for she felt that these veiled threats and underhanded comments meant nothing to her.

"Of course, though you could not ask me to house your companions. There would surely be a scandal!" Luxanna laughed along with her as if the joke she had made was the funniest thing she'd heard, and even though she knew it was fake Syndra devoured it and remembered it, held it dear.

"Why I would never have suggested such a thing. Sorry boys, but you'll have to go the long way home." The men nodded as if this was something they had discussed, and Syndra realized how out of her depth she was in these courtly affairs, that this woman was probably a trained diplomat, and that she could not just dominate her and get her to leave. As the two men trudged off, Syndra looked up at the island, glanced at Luxanna, and frowned.

"I rather fear there are no stairs… And I cannot lift you up there. I suppose it will have to come down to us." Luxanna was going to say something, probably that she could make her way up there herself, but by then the floating temple was already descending. Syndra sank her magic into the forest, exerting herself greatly to melt the trees it would have collapsed onto but avoiding the decay of any other living things. The island stopped as it started to grind into the earth, but then there was still a few dozen metres up to the lip. Syndra looked over to the Light mage, gesturing at the crust of dirt above them.

"Any ideas?" Luxanna did not reply, and suddenly produced a staff - tipped with gold, jarringly bright in the dark of the forest - from somewhere, flicking it at the rock face. A whip of Light lashed out and impacted about halfway up, dragging her to it like a winch. When she reached the spot, holding onto the wand like a rope, she did another gesture and shot back from the cliff face, then did the same grapple trick again to reach the top. Syndra met her there, clapping excitedly.

"My, how impressive! Though I imagine it required a significant effort, no?" Luxanna looked over as the implication sank in; Dark magic was easier, more useful, and of course by extension Syndra was far superior. The small woman simply smirked, as if that was enough to win the argument. And for Syndra, it just might have been, coming from her; that smile almost had her falling again as she felt dizzy. She was forcefully pulled back into reality when the soldier knocked on the door to the temple, long repaired from her arrival.

"Hello? Anyone home?" Once more, the hidden meaning filtered through to Syndra, that Luxanna had noticed Syndra's stunned expression and was mocking her. The doors unlocked and slammed open with a howl of wind, and magic carried her words across the distance between them.

"Please, Lux, make yourself at home. There are a plethora of uninhabited rooms, and I will be back shortly." Luxanna did not enter until Syndra had disappeared back over the lip as it rose back into the sky with a muffled rumbling of dirt. She looked up at the temple. Abandoned, but pristine. She did a lap around the building, and found Sensei's corpse. It was where she had last seen it, but the blood was dark and dry by now, and raised many questions in the Light mage, added another point to her report. It did not however change her options, so she entered and started to explore.

* * *

Syndra visited the nearby village, flying over the Elder on the way. The townsfolk were not sure whether to be scared or welcoming or angry, and many of those children over whom she had enjoyed dominion were now adults in their own right. She realized that much had changed, but it didn't affect her mission. She went to the general store, who sold those things that were imported from other towns and countries. Lamp oil, Western goods, and rope. She had to swoop down under the door to enter, and the man inside was very startled by the girl floating in horizontally, coming over and down to land in front of him. He froze as Syndra smiled. She was trying to seem confident and exude power, but it just made her seem shy and unsure when she smiled; she didn't have the malice to make him scared. She simply smiled for a long time, unsure as to how to broach the subject of purchase considering she had never bought anything in her life before… In fact, she didn't have any money, so how was she-

"Yes, miss? Looking to buy something?" _ohgodwhatdoIdomaybe-_

"Um yes, I need some rope. Rope ladder, actually." He raised an eyebrow, probably thinking this was some sort of prank. To be honest, she would have in his place, though she did also really need s-

"Well, I do stock some for people looking to go mining and logging and such. How much would you be looking to buy?" Syndra realized at this point she was mentally rambling and he had asked how much how tall was the crest of the island? She did some quick mental measurements and considered the easiest way to say 'really really really tall.'

"Tell me, did you have a hand in the construction of the Elder's Hall?" The man gave her a queer look, but nodded slowly.

"Built it with me son. A good man, him, married some nice las-"

"About eight of those.

He stuttered to a stop and absorbed the information she had given him.

"Eight… Eight what? Elder's Halls? Tall?" Syndra nodded once, simply, and his eyebrows would have shot off his head had they not been attached. Then he crossed his arms and snorted, waving at the door.

"Don't waste me time, girl, with your silly jokes. I have a business to run." A sudden flare of anger made her magic jump, and she stood in silence, staring, as she kept it tame. The man was starting to wonder who this strange girl was, coming in from nowhere, demanding such a strange- not to mention practically unfillable -order, and now was just staring at him, looking rather quite intimidating actually and he could swear he had seen her before…

"And don't you waste _my_ time with prejudice and bleating. Do you have what I need or not?" The storekeep almost ran from her then. Her voice, he could have sworn it had echoed and multiplied, booming through his store and _in his head_ and then he remembered her, this woman who stood in front of him, as the girl whom his son had been so terrified of when he was young and who had been escorted from the town when-

"O-Oh, yes, of course, my lady, um please just givemea-" And then he did flee into the back of the store, checking how much rope he had and whether he could order more because there was no way he had that much. Syndra, for her part, felt a little bad because she hadn't meant to scare him like that, for he did have a perfectly justified reason for his reply, but it had felt right, and the way he had fled was incredibly satisfying. In the meantime she needed to figure out how to make some money appear out of thin air-

Got it. Sensei had once shown her a teleportation cant, though many frowned down on it; not least because it was Dark magic, but also because it was incredibly easy and simple to perform and, the most damning thing, it required shadows. She raised her hand above the counter so that it cast a shadow there and focused hard on Sensei's office in her mind. The light was shining through the window so she closed the blind with a gesture, then remembered where he had placed his purse after giving them some to spend during a rare lunar festival celebrated in the village. He had placed it in a small wooden chest that he kept on his desk. She wasn't sure it would work, since she had only done it across a room before, but she believed her power was strong enough. She hoped it was too; if it wasn't it would teleport to somewhere in the forest between the temple and here, and then she would never find it again.

By the time she had finished that train of thought the chest was on the counter and the now-even-more-terrified shopkeeper had returned with a bound roll of rope ladders. He was staring at the lockbox under her hand, which had formed after shadows had crept along the floor and flocked to it like a magnet, while she chanted in some demonic language and her eyes glowed purple, floating just above the ground like she was possessed. She looked at him and smiled again, the shadows fleeing back across to the corners of the room and the purple in her eyes fading. She looked just like a girl again, he realised, and maybe that was the most dangerous thing about her. He set the rope atop the counter and unwound the twine holding it together, revealing it to be woven into a rope with slats of wood at regular intervals. He made sure not to touch the box whilst doing so.

"This is all I have, my lady. Maybe… Two Halls…? Sorry, but I don't have more." She frowned, and considered her options, during which the man hoped he wouldn't die suddenly.

"How quickly could you get the rest?" He wrinkled his nose, did a quick count on his fingers, and nodded.

"Well my lady, the ongoing civil war is making getting these sort of non-essential supplies very hard; these are left over from before the start, since, frankly, no one buys rope ladders." He chuckled in a way that showed he was scared, and Syndra wasn't sure whether to be happy or sad that he was, and then she realized that he'd said 'civil war' and filed that information away for later, for that could be a problem very quickly.

"It would take a very large sum of gold and a, uh, less... Reputable purveyor of goods to secure that much at this time. It would probably take about a week to arrange; a day for the message itself and about five for the delivery, since it'll be coming all the way from the coast. In fact, a day longer because they'd have to get through all the new checkpoints. So overall seven days… A week, my lady, and at no small cost." Syndra was largely ignorant to most of what he had said, but he had helpfully summarised his rambling and so she nodded simply, smiled slightly, and asked for an estimate of coin.

"This length of ladder here I wove myself so it didn't cost anything, but if I was to buy a properly crafted one, maybe a silver piece per couple metres, marked up thrice and twice again for acquisition and travel and-"

"Short answer, please." He nodded quickly, not really hearing her, his mouth still moving to make words and hands still counting figures and then he announced the answer.

"Roughly four golden lotus, my lady, to be on the safe side and make sure there is no funny business on the other end." He spoke with the matter-of-fact attitude of someone who was used to working with the seedier side of life, and she felt that if he was ripping her off it was only par for the course. She nodded and gestured a hand. The box flung open and a stream of silver flowed out, carried by shadowy ethereal hands, and stacked themselves perfectly onto the tabletop in equal towers. The man was agape; not only at such a simple and off-handed use of magic, but with the simple and off-handed use of such a massive quantity of money. It was more than he had earned in the last year! He reached out a hand slowly before a warning fired in his mind. This wealth came from someone who clearly used Dark magic, had directly been handled with the evil stuff… What if it was corrupted or cursed or tainted? He looked at her warily, considering voicing his concerns; greed warring with caution warring with fear, and then she smiled sweetly and it struck him that she hadn't really threatened him, his memory of her younger self lending him prejudice. He smiled back for the first time, and winced as hands grasped the ropes and sunk them into the shadows. She turned and floated back through his door and he reverently counted the coins, just so he could, and prised up a floorboard and put them there.

* * *

Luxanna was caught somewhere between awe and fear. She had at first thought the floating temple was a trick of some sort, maybe a pillar of rock hidden in the shadow beneath, but it was the shadows themselves that kept it aloft. The temple itself was sad and incredibly confusing to look through. Every room looked as if its owner could return any second, some still had candles burning in them, and there was one room in particular that was very clearly Syndra's. When she opened the door she could tell; the shadows inside crept up to the door and coated the doorway, so that light didn't pierce it. Out of interest, she lit a candle and entered. The second the flame crossed the threshold, a hiss swept through the room and spectral hands pinched the flame out. The darkness laughed at her, and then she wove a spell and a blazing star of luminescence was born, the shadows driven back with echoing howls. The corruption would be driven back, the evil of the Dark.

She looked around, and apart from the Dark magic saturating the area, it was a pretty normal teenage girl's room. She wasn't sure what they meant, about Syndra. She left the star there to cleanse the room and went wandering again, found Sensei's room just as the shadows crept forwards and stole the chest in a flurry of darkness, and would have banished them if she wasn't sure Syndra was the one doing it. The room is sparse, but well-loved, and she can understand some facet of Sensei's personality just by examining it. He was a simple man of little pleasures, wise beyond her imagination. She wondered how long he'd been alive, before Syndra murdered her. The thought twinged inside of her, made her heart ache, her shoulder slump. She wanted to believe Syndra was a good person, wanted to think that she wasn't the Dark avatar that others thought she was destined to become. Maybe she could help her along the right path. The thought brings a smile to her face again.


	3. The Dark Demands

AN:

A bit of a long one, but I couldn't afford to cut anything else out. I think you'll forgive me.

* * *

Syndra didn't know what to do. She knew where Lux was; could tell throughout the night of every shift. The Dark was trying to overcome her. It seeped into her form as she slept, tainting. As soon as she awoke, Syndra dressed and floated over to her room. She wondered if it was a coincidence that it was Sensei's room. Lux was lying on the bed. Her face was twisted in pain, drenched in sweat. Syndra's heart shattered as she saw this, dreading to think of what Lux would say or think when she woke up. With a violent gesture, the shadows dissipated and left her to slump, finally able to start recovering. For the first time in her life, Syndra felt tears building in her eyes, looking at this thing, this woman, who… Who represented everything good in her life. But it wasn't her life, truly. She saw, in her mind, a line drawn in the sand; beyond lay the Justicar, and a life of love and Light. But the other side lay the Tyrant's cliff, a sheer drop to the Void. The line was a knife's edge, a dangerous proposition, a way of life unforetold. She looked at this simple creature whom - at least in one life - she loved, and thought of how now, though she lived, Lux was just as impossible and far away as the sun. She considered why she didn't join the Tyrant; what drove her to balance precariously, teetering, always in danger of falling and losing who she is - or was, in any case. It was a simple answer, considering the complicated nature of the question. She would grasp to any hope, any vague notion, of the life she had seen. For the love of her life, the one who had trusted her and had that trust betrayed...

She would walk the line.

Stepping closer so she could see clearer - her vision was strangely blurry, her face warm and wet - Syndra reached out and placed one slim hand atop the glowing white of the mage's forehead. Subconsciously bidden, the luminescent orb Lux left behind floats down to the Sovereign's other hand. It is painfully hot to the touch, overwhelmingly so, but she grimaces and stubbornly bears the pain. Using the suffering as a guiding force, she channels an equal amount of Dark into Lux's soul, her being, leaving a mark. With it, she imparts the memories she has lived, from every stilted word as a baby, to every commanding line as a child, to every scathing remark as a teenager; finally, her vision, and the time spent between then and now, a fateful cast. The mark sits in Lux's mind, glowing in a queer way, somehow bright in its absence of light. Some would consider it a scar, an ugly reminder. Some a memento, nothing more than a trinket of times past. Later, Lux will look upon it and consider it, weighted upon the things imparted to her with it, and what Syndra will do next, and think of it as a thing that represents her feelings. It is, inherently, an abomination; a Dark, evil, corrupting influence, one that will quickly drive her to ruin.

Yet it does not stop her from crying of the love she knows she could have, and could _give._

Of the Light that she can see there, in the Dark star of her love's heart, and the wish it would _shine._

Syndra suffered - or gained, it was hard to tell - in equal measure. As she implanted that shard of herself within Lux, the orb, which had been spinning faster and faster as time went on, exploded into sparks. Unseen to normal eyes, the magic contained delved into Syndra's palm, drilling through flesh, blood, and then soul. It took its own, rightful place within Syndra's mindscape, a mirror in every way to Lux. It carried with it the same boon, the same feelings, the memories given paid back with interest. She learn all that the Light mage knew. The knowledge was, simply, invaluable, but Syndra didn't care for the tactical benefit yet. It was the principal; the idea that the two were connected by more than emotions or conflict. She rose a slim hand to feel the lock of golden hair resting over her left eye, a physical manifestation of their bond. Lux sported a similar symbol, resting easily. Syndra was drained, but it couldn't stop her. Shadows flit and flock to the fallen girl, covering, cocooning, then she sinks into the floor to somewhere no one can reach her but the Dark Sovereign.

Syndra lifts from the floor, magic carrying her on currents unseen, guiding her, the information she has gleaned from Lux's mind too valuable and concerning to ignore.

As she gracefully comes down at the edge of her domain, the shadows holding it boil. They crawl upwards, consuming, and coat the floating island. With a pop of air, it disappears, cutting into a place between worlds and reappearing, Syndra stood at the helm, arms outstretched, face taut. It comes into being directly above the castle of Lord Rikmar, and a well-practiced panic ensues.

Rikmar and his closest advisors are poring over a map when the light streaming in from thin windows cuts out. There is general disarray, the ringing of swords being drawn, the smell of paranoia and fear rife. A door opens, and with it light cast from more artificial sources spills forth. Orders are given, messengers are sent, and Rikmar marches with purpose.

Syndra walks - not floats, she wants to feel the gravel crunch beneath her feet - up the road leading to the fort. Ahead, men fill the inside of the walls, armed with swords, bows, and oil; both sides know that they stand no chance, that they prepare in vain, yet they do so anyway. These brave soldiers have been given orders, know their place, and follow loyally. Many do so in an attempt to protect loved ones, others out of hopes of glory and honour. Collectively, they wait to die, willing to lay down their lives in an effort to change the course of history, to deflect a blow deadly and swift.

They are left waiting.

As Syndra walks, a man in hastily-donned armour is also waiting for her, standing at the border of the sun's domain and the shadow of her fortress. He turns to her as she approaches, nervousness fairly dripping from him. She smiles sweetly at him as she stops a distance which, for a normal threat, would be safe, and for her is more than adequately dangerous. The man does not stutter, and she is equal parts impressed and amused.

"Welcome, Syndra, to Lord Rikmar's seat. Might I inquire as to your intentions here, as a humble servant of our Lord?" He manages to get the sentence out without breaking eye contact, but when he is done she can tell it drains him. His sword is loose in the sheath, and he glances back to the relative safety of the walls; men hide there, and if Syndra saw like them she would indeed not notice a soul. She realizes the man here is expected to die. A sacrifice, in a way, to buy the rest a queer opportunity. She wonders why him, above the rest, but she will never get those answers, and his sacrifice will have to wait for another time, and another cause.

"You may, though Rikmar is not my Lord. Indeed, he is my subject, and by extension yourself." The man is confused and scared in equal parts, and tries again.

"Then, my Lady, what are your wishes for this visit?" The smile she wears drains him, innocent and carefree, a paradox for the words that they convey, and to the beast that wears it.

"Why, I am here for my coronation. Rikmar is to make me his Queen, and rightfully so." The man doesn't reply, entirely unable to consider a proper response to such a statement. Syndra doesn't mind, walking past him as his lips move in silent motions. The unseen guards bristle with weaponry, straining taut at a leash of fear and uncertainty. She reaches the gate unhindered, where the unlucky sacrifice shouts for a postern gate to be opened. Syndra has no such need.

Stepping up to the gate, she considers a time in her life that mirrors this one. She remembers the day that she met Sensei, blasting the door off its hinges and leaving Sensei to swiftly tamp her magic. She considers the same, but decides that is too aggressive. It would likely be seen as an attack, and besides, she has no real wish to cause such wanton destruction. She ignores the twinge of guilt and sadness that accompanies the thought of Sensei, and his death at her hands.

Behind the door, as is the case with many such gates, lies a thick wooden plank that secures it, stopping it from opening, resting in several brackets across the door. Unseen hands build and press upwards, sending it launching upwards on a pivot. The gate slowly creaks open, whispers of alarm and suppression echoing. Syndra glides through from the twilight outside, purple light staining the floor around her. The gate swings close behind her, the bar landing with force that makes it bounce upwards twice before settling, silent at last. Beyond lies the grand hall, cleverly designed for both form and function. It is shaped circularly, as in keeping with Ionian custom. The custom also dictates that seating tables be circular, for the same reason; to show equality for all present. This means the tables would be no use for cover, so the two nearest the door are serving tables, long and squared and thick to stop bullets and arrows, slotted to add spikes. Syndra herself would notice none of this, but Lux is far more observant and her perception is borrowed. The tables are righted for the moment; the soldiers who would man them stunned or otherwise prevented from garrisoning them. At the far end, upon a raised dias, sits a larger, grander table. It holds seven seats, and five of them are occupied. Lux's memories tell her that none are Rikmar himself, though a man masquerades in his place. Besides the fake sits the Lord's real wife, her son the Master-at-Arms next to her. The other side sit Rikmar's magical advisor and her husband, the quartermaster. Behind the table the two mages, Lem and Roland, stand guard. Roland is relaxed, but Lux tells Syndra that he is amazingly swift and alert. Lem is the picture of suppressed paranoia; twitching, arcs of fire leaping over his body, eyes both locked onto Syndra and unable to stop roaming ceaselessly. The two would give their lives for their Lord, as would any others in the hall. Syndra cares not.

A fat, sweaty man with a bugle and a scroll steps forth next to the fake Rikmar, delivering a nervous, cracked rapport before unrolling the vellum and announcing in a shaky voice:

"Mistress S-Syndra, my Lord Rikmar, by no name other than her own." He scuttles away as quickly as etiquette allows, which isn't very. The man at the head of the table stands, throwing his arms aside in a grand gesture of greeting.

"Welcome, to my Hall, Syndra, of no nam-"

"You are not Rikmar." Her words are bored, almost uninterested. She floats behind the opposite chair, shadows making the floor seem alive below her. The air thickens at her proclamation. The fake is Rikmar's Hand, called Brave; champion, advisor and herald, all rolled into one. It is a Noxian custom, for the leaders of those brutish barbarians require a man to trust ultimately. Amongst the Ionians, trust is a natural state of being, and all those close to a Lord are of equal favour. This man splutters and tries again, spouting meaningless shrivel, and is interrupted as the true Lord marches into the hall. Soldiers attempt to corral him back, but he is undeterred. The Hand sighs and moves over a seat, leaving Rikmar the one opposite Syndra. She sits down as he does, filling the final seat.

This Lord doesn't bother with the useless customs, she is glad to know. He is a hard-faced man; a square jaw covered in dark bristle, cheekbones high and sharp. He is a handsome man, she notes with pleasure, despite his time in the Noxian forces. This tells of a great warrior, to avoid injury so. There is one mar to his face, a small scar; branding which shows his previous nature as a slave to the Gladiator Pits of Noxus, before he was a General in the Hand's army. His story is a coloured one, and it leads to a man who is sick of the nature of war and pain, who denied his Noxian upbringing to bring peace and order to this far-off land. Syndra respects him for this, and wishes she could copy him so easily; to have the strength to deny what others expect, to make his own destiny, but without having it corrupt him. She envies him this; she wonders each day if she is corrupted by her power, and that is the only thing that convinces her to the negative. His story is also where Lux's arrival is explained. She was on a mission in Noxus, to spy on and sabotage an upcoming war effort. She was captured by Rikmar, but instead of execution, he offered his help. All he wanted in return was Demacia's help escaping, with some of his closest allies, to Ionia. She relayed his message, it was accepted, and together they broke the back of a new threat. When Rikmar set off, she simply followed him. At first, upon being asked, she said that she was ordered to follow and secure his route. But when her time came to travel back to the capital, Brightstone, and receive her new orders, she made a decision that would change her life. Demacia was a place where magic was abhorred, vilified. She didn't feel welcome, or safe. If she was found out, she could still get exiled to the slums, or worse, annulled. Ionia was a place where magic was _everywhere._ It was almost a dream; she could glow as brightly as she wanted and there was no judging parents, no fear of discovery. When she smiled and the light played around her head like a rainbow, people smiled back. She was glad for that. Syndra has to peel her thoughts back from Lux - it is hard to separate herself so - for she is broken from her reverie by the large man addressing her.

"Mistress Syndra, I greet you as a man who knows he is outmatched, and could perish alongside everything he loves any moment. What is it that you want with me and the families under my protection?" His wife, Mydaltt, is strong-backed and iron-willed, a paragon of stubbornness to match her husband's sympathetic and kind nature. Her words are far more direct.

"If you are here to destroy us, do so. Do not keep us waiting in torture for a death we know is inevitable." The men around them shift to grasp the pommels and hafts of weapons, echoing her sentiment. Syndra nods to her, in respect for a brave wish, one that merits the speaker; the woman Mydaltt will have to be watched.

"You say that these lands are under your protection, Lord. Yet you are fighting a losing battle, outnumbered, standing on the moral high ground whilst your opponent holds the strategic one. You cannot last forever without sacrificing land; and you will not abandon the families there to their fates." All collected at the table nod, surprised at her knowledge. Rikmar stares at her, his gaze attempting to burrow the knowledge from her directly, waiting.

"Then I offer _you_ protection, Rikmar, and those under you. The warlord Emperor Davith will be crushed beneath our force, and you will be free to spread your benevolent rule to those who surround us. You will swear fealty to me, your Queen, and I will deliver to you salvation." The people gathered stiffen, an ultimatum proposed. Rikmar nods, surprisingly at ease. His wife snorts, arms crossed lightly in her lap.

"And what will you do if we refuse your kind offer?" Syndra smiles, replying with a sweet arrogance.

"I would not recommend it. You would not want to see the results." She hopes she is convincing, doing her best to keep her voice even and low, without a hint of doubt. She doesn't want them to see she is bluffing. The wife laughs bitterly, but leans back, satisfied. Rikmar looks to Syndra, brow furrowed and voice weary.

"How do I know that you can deliver on your promise to crush Davith? What forces do you have at your command?" The Dark Sovereign smiles, a predatory smile, one the wolf offers the hen he has taken for dinner. Shadows creep from the corners of the room, torches flicker and snuff out, malevolent whispers scratching at the edge of hearing. The room is plunged into blackness as unseen forms crawl between the shoulder blades of those present, and all that can be seen in the gloom is a pair of eyes in stark purple, looming, wisps of Dark trailing upwards; a voice that splits and echoes, promises malice and agony, answers.

 **"** _ **The forces at my whim are beyond your ken, mortal. Know that Davith's end is at my hands, but guess not how."**_

The darkness recedes, followed by licks of flame from beyond Rikmar to light the sconces, revealing the slumped forms of many who succumbed to the fear, fainting in shock. The only ones left conscious are those at the table and the two mages behind it. Lem is staring, caught between awe and fear, flame still smoking from his palms, unsure whether to attack. Roland grunts, unimpressed. A man of Earth, he trusts in firm ground. Actions, blood, not vague threats and promises. Rikmar sits as he was beforehand, apparently unmoved. The magical advisor, Narrla, is pale, hands clutching a wand that has been snapped in two by fear. She could see the true power beyond the show of force, eyes privy to secrets that none should be. She speaks quickly, voice cracked and weak, but determined, like a kicked dog.

"I must vouch in our Queen's honour, my Lord. The power she wields is enough to…" The woman trails off, mouth and hands moving patterns meant to ward off evil. Rikmar nods, apparently satisfied, and turns to his son. Syndra barely hears it; the roaring of the Dark inside, angry, fighting to sink its teeth into those around her is nearly drowning her. The show's effort took more out of her than expected.

"Go fetch a map of the area, Raltt. We will study a plan of attack." The young man stands up, shooting a wrathful glare at her. She lets it go, but follows him with her eyes.

"Where is the ambassador we sent to you?" The question catches her off-guard, the shock clear in her face. Syndra turns back to see Rikmar's wife, hands clenched, practically snarling. She is too angry to have lost a soldier, valuable or otherwise. Syndra's hand floats through the air, unhurried, and the shadows leap to obey. They flit and coalesce on the table, fleeing once more to reveal Lux, face peaceful and form relaxed. Rikmar's jaw clenches tightly, teeth grinding, but his wife leaps to her feet. She screams threats she intends to carry out before a gesture leaves her unable to breath. The air creeps from her lungs and she collapses into her chair, gasping.

"Is your faith in your Queen so little that you would jump to a horrid conclusion? Luxanna is fine. She will sleep for a time, but until then naught is wrong with her." Rikmar almost collapses in relief, and his lady wife heaves in lungfuls of air as the magical pressure closing them abates. This is when their son returns, a scroll under arm. He is hurried, nervously doing his best not to glance at the collapsed forms of his father's army. He goes to place the scroll down, and notices Lux, who sinks from view into the Void. His father wearily signals for him to continue. The son resumes, but his body is tense in anger and hatred. The map is a large one, requiring a dozen jade weights to hold it in place, but detailed in strange ways. The maps Syndra has seen are those of luxury, showing places of beauty. This map is a military construction. Once it is in place, Rikmar stands for the first time. This reveals his height; easily towering over seven feet. It is a queer coincidence that this brings him eye-to-eye with his Queen. The two see in each other a kindred soul, one like themselves. He nods once, and pins a finger to a portion on the map. It is Rose Gulch, a long valley with tall but not sheer sides. His finger lands on a mark already drawn onto the canvas; a large, stylized D, surrounded by tents.

"Here lies the traitor Davith. His army lies at the near side of the Gulch, extorting the nearby villages for food and soldiers. His raids reach far, and if we were to withdraw our troops from the region we protect it would be in flames by the next dawn." Syndra nods; this she knew.

"What are your odds of victory in combat?" The Lord looks to his son, who answers with both pride and venom in his voice.

"My Lord commands roughly four-thousand men. Davith holds far more; ten-thousand. If we were to fight them in an even skirmish, we could defeat them with heavy losses, leaving the villages undefended in the meantime. If we were to pin them into a small gap, it would be far more advantageous. This is why we have driven him to the gulch, but there is one problem. If we march, he will know within the hour. He could flee, or prepare an ambush, or send men around ours to pillage. Thus, we must leave at least half of the men here, to defend from a counterattack." The Lord nods, pleased with the succinct summary. This information ties into Syndra's understanding.

"Then we will leave but a thousand. Take the other three here, to the close side of the gully. Davith's men will be in the far end, and I will push them towards you at dawn on the fourth day from now. Reap them like wheat." A sort of shocked silence drapes over those present until it is shattered by an incredulous reply from the Master-at-Arms.

"What!? We just said we have to leave a-!" A dark shape drops from the ceiling, landing silently on the young man's shoulders. Immediately, his voice is cut off as small, malevolent hands grasp his throat. He falls to his knees and makes ghastly hissing sounds, clawing desperately over his shoulders. His mother leaps to her feet instantly.

"What are you doing! What is that thing?! Let him go!" Rikmar holds his wife by the arm, holding her back from using the sword that has appeared in her hand. He looks equally pained, though his head is clear. Syndra watches impassively as his struggles slow. Rikmar tries his hand at imploring her.

"Please, my Queen, his tongue will learn to keep itself still! If he dies we will be severely weakened!" Lem and Roland move closer, straining at a frayed leash. Narrla readies a spell she knows will be akin to a gnat to the sun that is Syndra's power. An unseen command passes, and the darkling fades into smoke. She is, truthfully, glad to avoid his death. She isn't sure she can resist the lure of watching the light in someone's eyes be snuffed out, and has no wishes to test it. She daintily falls to one knee, lifting his head with one slim hand, forcing his eyes to meet hers.

"I do not want to be surrounded by a clique of complacent yes-men. I will rule a kingdom, and I will have advisors, and I will need to trust and be trusted by those closest to me. But forget not I am your _Queen,_ and I will be respected as such."

He nods, gasping, muttering assurances of loyalty and abeyance. She stands once more, returning to the map. Rikmar and his wife are clearly shaken, but do their best to move past it.

"Three thousand men. And worry not about a counterattack. Any other objections?" The gathered do not reply, faces pale. She regrets this, but knows there was no other option. She nods curtly.

"Good. March at dawn. Any earlier and scouts will harry you. I will come to you before the final confrontation."

"Aye, my Queen. Thank you for your assistance."

There is a strange stand-off as the leaders realize their men are all having an impromptu nap, and thus there is nought to do until they wake up. Rikmar, his son - trying to forget his near death moments before - and the quartermaster, Lamol, stand over the map, discussing things of tactical import. Rikmar's wife rests, tense, watching Syndra with an indecipherable look. Narrla alternates nervously gazing at Syndra, mouth open to query, and looking down at the table, cowed.

"What is it you wish to ask me, woman?" Her subject flinches, then shows a hidden steel, meeting her eyes. Inside, there glows a similar light to Lux, but it is hidden by the rest of her magic.

"What ignited your potential?" Syndra tries not to let the comment affect her, as it irks her how she cannot know the solution, giving the same answer she did Sensei:

"I have always had my magic, according to those who knew me as a baby. No traumatic event drove me to find it within me." The advisor nods, as if this meets her appraisal. Acting before she can hesitate, the mage reaches over and grasps Syndra's hand in hers, building a connection. The world fades as they climb into a fake realm. Syndra is calm; she is ignorant to these events, but trusts in her magic. The two stand on a Dark plane, shadows boiling beneath them in a black sea. The mage looks overwhelmed and slightly terrified. For some reason, she is staring at the 'sky.' As this continues for a full minute in a silence behind the roar of magic, Syndra quickly grows bored.

"Why have you brought me here? Where are we?" The mage snaps from her reverie, and looks at Syndra in a new light. Her eyes betray nothing.

"We are in your soul. It is a simple trick; inner reflection. It is harder to impose it on someone else. But…" She trails off, continuing to stare into the sky for a few more seconds, then asks in an irritated or perhaps scared tone:

"Where is your well?" Syndra shrugs lazily. Her hand drifts in the air, and to her delight it causes waves in the ocean below. She starts to swirl patterns as the advisor continues to talk.

"Your well. The connection to magic. It manifests as a star in most cases; a speck of light unseen, with trails leading from it. There is a star, but it isn't your well." Syndra realizes this sounds important and stops idling, turning as her companion's face twist into incredulity.

"You don't have one, do you? _Gods._ You're connected straight to the source. Then what's that star?" She turns back and continues to examine it, lifting a hand. Tentative tendrils of some form of magic seep through the Dark-stained air. They trail higher and higher until, to Syndra's vision, they coil around the bright star. Immediately, the lines of magic shatter, and they drop back into reality.

The hall is as they left it, as if no time at all had passed. Rikmar and his two generals still stand over the table. Mydaltt is still staring mysteriously. The only thing that has changed is Narrla's expression, but it is hard to discern. Syndra thinks it is almost admiring, but that can't be right.

"You are the most powerful being I've seen or heard of." Syndra gives a laugh in reply. It is honest, and shocking. It is strange how those words affect her; as if she had been looking for them, but once given were discarded, rotten. She doesn't want them. She doesn't want what they bring, what they mean.

"Then it is a good thing you're on my side." The advisor nods, slowly, and a strange look comes over her face. She leans close - going so far as to press a hand to Syndra's shoulder for support - and whispers:

" _Don't let your magic become you. Think of the star in your sky, that has replaced all others._ "

And having traded that cryptic piece of information, she stands, excuses herself, and leaves. Syndra rises into the air, those around her temporarily lapsing in concentration. She drifts off absently, further into the castle, leaving their voices behind. Unconscious soldiers litter the pathways; it is a good thing she flies. After a minute of travelling, she arrives at Lux's room. The door is closed and locked, but telekinesis is handy when it comes to such things. Her brow furrows and she tries to press gently at the inside of the door, against the lock there, but instead the door bursts open; splinters of wood explode in a cloud. She grunts, vexed, and floats inside. It is a room practically bare but for dozens of tiny objects scattered throughout; mementoes and trinkets. Borrowed memories hold a story for each one. The number of times Lux has escaped death with an object to remember it by is out-weighted by the number of times she escaped empty handed. It is a little overpowering; an entire second life, one that converged with Syndra's. She feels it only fair that there be a memory here, for their time together.

She presses a finger to the wood of the bedframe. It starts to smoke; decaying as Dark rots at it. After a complex twist and flick of her hand, a large, stylized 'S' is carved into the foot of the bed. She repeats, this time leaving an 'L.' The two twine together, overlapping. She stands and realizes Lux is lying in the bed. She is tucked in, comfortable. She looks vulnerable and small when she's asleep. A surge of protectiveness washes over her, followed closely by sadness for that which she cannot have. She is standing beside the sleeping form, one hand gently cupping a cheek, the other twisting in clawed patterns, and after a moment she notices that the Dark elemental is crouched over Lux's form. Her mind starts to fall away, the magic sweeping in to replace it, and she belatedly realizes that she's losing control. The strain of keeping Lux safe had taken more from her than she thought, and like a muscle that only aches after its work is done, the magic is ready to strike. Immediately, she reels the power in, crushed inside of her where it cannot affect anything. A hissing voice meets her as the elemental disappears, unable to sustain itself.

" _You understand, Mistress, that you are not in control. Embrace your destiny, or Lux will die."_ Inside of her, a hidden war rages. Magic snakes within, crushing, trying to overwhelm her. She denies it; her power is absolute, and she will _not_ yield. She drops to her knees as her form shivers, breaking, agonised, and then the magic screams and snaps. It is hers once more. The boiling sea inside her calms. Her hand is frozen, muscles tensed to the point of breaking, magic thick like treacle between her fingers. She exhales and climbs back to her feet. The hissing voice fades into a cacophony of noises, dying away slowly. She gazes at the mage for a few moments, wondering what this all meant. Its meaning is likely obscure, and she hasn't the time or inclination to puzzle it out. As she reaches the door, she hears a voice call out to her from the bed, soft and sweet and bubbly.

"You'd leave me after I came back for you?" It sounds hurt, but playful. Syndra realizes she's teasing her. She spins, revealing Lux sitting up. She's rubbing one eye. She looks… Cute. Syndra hasn't really considered anything cute before. It's a common sentiment when it comes to Lux, she realizes. She floats over, smiling before she realizes it, but stops herself a foot from the end of the bed. She remembers what she has given Lux, and what she stole. She feels guilty, scared of her reaction.

"I didn't know you were awake." She keeps her voice neutral, tentative. Lux doesn't notice or doesn't mind, smiling widely. Her hair is ruffled and knotted, but gleams as always.

"I know, silly. Just teasing!" She giggles. Syndra giggles as well. It feels strange, but not wrong. Like an unused muscle. Lux inspires that in her. She inspires a lot things in a lot of people, perhaps.

"I… I'm sorry." Her voice cracks. She mentally berates herself for showing weakness. Lux's smile softens, like she's trying to broach a touchy subject with a child. Syndra isn't sure how she feels about that.

"What for? The shadows trying to eat me in my sleep? Sharing your memories with me?" She throws the covers off; she's still wearing the same travel-stained clothing as she was yesterday. Syndra nods. Lux giggles again, and stretches.

"Which one? Cos I'm more ok with the memory thing than the eating bit." She's teasing her again. Syndra concludes that she doesn't mind Lux doing it, but the feelings of guilt it summons eat at her.

"Both. And I promise that the Dark will not touch you again." Her voice is unwavering, true. But soft. Lux stands up, a strange gleam in her eye. She comes close and takes Syndra's hand. She has the peculiar picture of Lux holding a large, purple kite on a string spring into her mind. As such, she doesn't notice when Lux leans in close, her mouth next to her ear. She does hear the words, though.

"Can you still touch me? Or has the Dark stolen your body as well as your soul?" She pulls back. Her breath sent a shiver down Syndra's spine. The Sovereign doesn't understand the hidden meaning in the words, isn't aware of their existence. The Light mage's mischievous grin thus confuses her. She answers as she can, truthful. Despite Sensei's betrayal in that regard, she feels the need to uphold his lessons.

"No. There are times where… Where I lose control, and the magic overwhelms me. But for now… I am me, and only me." Lux nods and giggles and presses her lips to Syndra's.

She doesn't realize, for a second, then in a rush like magic roaring in her veins, the pleasure swamps her.

Her mind has escaped her, and all she knows is the slim woman in her arms and her wonderful touch, her arms holding her to the floor, burning through her clothing. She leans in further, pressing, and Lux copies the action; they fuse together like magnets, and their skin ignites at the other's touch and their lips start to ache from the ravenous pressure. They break the kiss simultaneously; the star in their souls tells them it is time. Syndra's eyes are wide, darting, deep. Her mouth is formed into a perfectly surprised circle. Lux's beaming grin is blinding in its literal brightness, and the love that Syndra can feel seeping from her every pore. She doesn't understand but doesn't care to; she pulls Lux up for another, and they can barely breath afterwards, and she can _feel_ the emotion leaking out of her into Lux and out Lux and into her, the star in her soul so bright…

"I didn't think it would feel so… Strong. Or so hungry." Lux's chirping steals her focus.

"I didn't imagine I would ever experience it." There is a moment where Syndra smiles back; her heart sings, her feelings overpowering, and then she can feel it twist. The magic inside whispers to her; it is sinister, it is malicious, and it is honest.

" _But how can you ever love her? How can_ she _love_ you _? A shadow fades before the light! You are evil. You are DARK! You are mine, and you will obey ME!"_ The magic ruptures and explodes in a violent tempest. Her breath fades from her lungs, and her vision clouds. Lux's face, now twisting into a frown, grows further and further away… Syndra understands. She knows. She speaks.

"Luxanna, we… This won't work. You are my anathema. I am Dark. I am destined to ruin our world and one day I will. I'm not strong enough to resist…" The magic grows still, and silent. She can feel the pressure easing, like ice thawing. Lux's smile comes sharply into focus and she can't believe she ever said such things to her. Her lips are moving… What is she saying? She doesn't know, but the magic hears.

"Then I'll help you be strong! You don't need to be alone anymore!"

" _No… NO! KILL HER, KI-"_ And the star that binds them explodes in a radiant fury, a luminous sun that crushes back the Dark that threatens to overwhelm her.

"A shadow _thrives_ beside the Light!" Lux's voice is strong, defiant, as bright as the Light she wields.

Syndra takes a long, gasping breath. There is something missing, she doesn't know what for a moment. She can see, Lux's smile her whole field of view, and then that magical feeling as their lips meet again. It hits her and she doesn't know how it took so long. The Dark, roiling sea inside her mind has calmed, and she no longer has to spare her mind to repress its hold over her. It is like resting a muscle you hadn't noticed ached; suddenly her mind, coiled and tense, prepared for the magic within to rebel, can sit on its laurels. A wave of weary gratitude sweeps her, followed immediately by fierce love and a giddy happiness. She cannot quench the smile that tears its way to the surface, or stifle the urge to more forcefully affirm these feelings; this time, amongst the strange, stunned paralysis stealing over her, Syndra is the one who presses her lips against Lux's. She gasps and for some reason she doesn't mind crying it is so freeing and Lux smiles at her like it's the most beautiful thing in the world.

Syndra believes that Lux is mistaken, in this isolated instance, for her reaction trumps all else in that regard.


	4. The Light Denies

Syndra feels like travelling long distances is above her, but she has little choice. Shadow travel is a finicky thing, especially over long distances, and she needs a clear image of the area. She has never been to Rose Gulch; she must go there manually. She also has to admit that flying through the air has a certain appeal, gliding effortlessly across the breeze. Below her pass trees and fields, tiny specks of people. It was startlingly cold until she started keeping the air from stealing her heat. Now, she flew quickly and directly, occasionally swirling through the clouds and moving aside from flocks of birds. It was a queer happiness, a simple one. There are moments when she misses Lux - and her lips - but unfortunately the Light mage cannot fly. That, and that fact that Syndra has the unquenchable urge to protect her, and no matter what she says to herself, she can't think otherwise. She also has questions about the usefulness of a Light mage in a nighttime stealth attempt, but she kept that to herself. Lux will march with the army, and hopefully the few days they are apart will not be too draining. As she continues to think about the Light mage, her mind begins to wander, focusing mostly on the taste of her lips against her own. The air doesn't feel so cold; in fact, she feels quite warm, and her stomach is twisting. She doesn't know why.

Her lustful contemplation was broken by the smell of smoke reaching up to her, beckoning, calling for aid. She swept down, diving in an exhilarating descent. Soon, screams met her ears, and she glided upwards as the wind roared past her, hovering above a large building just starting to be coated in flames. Standing in a perimeter around it is about two dozen armed thugs, one carrying a Western rifle. They are holding back a tide of peasants clutching buckets of water, alternately shouting angrily and fearfully. Syndra drops down, letting gravity take its rare grip, and stops just before the man with the rifle, who is clearly the ring-leader of the brutes. He looks just as surprised as everyone else.

"What are you doing to my village, fool?" She can see the gears turning slowly in his mind, spitting smoke and sparks. She can tell he's come to a conclusion; he may not be intelligent, maybe a little simple, but there's one thing for sure; Davith is paying a hefty sum to beat some villagers and maybe carry a young woman or two away, and thus Davith has his loyalty. This guides his answer amid the confusion he feels. It is an admirable level of loyalty, though entirely misplaced.

"Wot you sayin'? Dis is Davif's village, an' he feels dat dese 'ere farmers need a lesson teached to 'em." Syndra cannot honestly decipher most of what he's saying, but she gets the message. In the time it takes for the man's heart to beat, her magic has seeped over the building and the area. The fire immediately puffs out, and the souls of the thugs do too. It starts with a whispered mutter, then a tentative swing, and then the group scream. Their hands drop weapons and sacks of food, and those same hands claw at necks, trying to dislodge a phantasmal claw wrapped firmly. They tear out their own throats, nails chipped, and die in agony as they bleed out, sobbing in abject terror. Syndra is a purple star, a beacon of death and hope in equal measure, depending on the viewer.

She is strangely conflicted on this matter, for someone who slaughtered two dozen men like so many mewling babes.

Her control has increased markedly. A strange calming sensation emanates from the star inside her soul, calming the roiling nature of the Dark that courses through her. It is almost tame, so easy to shape. It matches the ease with which the men died, and their terror is a relevant comparison to her own. It was so easy to kill them, too easy, and she fears what that means. She comes to a conclusion; hesitating, torturing herself over the deaths of others, will cause twice as much pain. She is too strong-willed and pragmatic to let an obvious opponent live, and yet she will despair the loss. She isn't sure whether to laugh or cry at the power she has somehow come to wield. Her introspection is interrupted by a soft voice, but loud and hearty.

"So, then, what do you want with our village? More tithes?" She realizes she is crouched over the corpse of the leader, and stands to face the talker. He is a weary man, old beyond his too few years. Slung over his neck is a blacksmith's leather, and a hefty hammer takes pride in his right hand. It held in a stance akin to a weapon, having been used for that purpose too many times. The rest of the villagers carry such improvised weapons, likely prepared to drive out the bandits. They look upon her in much the same way; most are painfully thin, emaciated, clearly being driven to the brink of starvation by these vultures. The thought makes her angry, and she thinks for once that is a good thing.

"No, brave serf. I come to bring, not to take. To build and guard. You have surely heard of Lord Rikmar, of the neighbouring province." Many nods follow, and just the intonation of his name brings calm, clearly a powerful one in this village.

"He is sworn to me, under me. I am his Queen, as I am now yours. I am your Sovereign, and I will deliver you from the rule of Davith, from oppression and fear." Mutters, some angry, some hopeful, ring. Most look understandably skeptic.

"Look to the bodies of these vultures. They bring pain and fear. I have no doubt they have plagued you for many years. And yet, now, that plague is gone. And soon, its unholy father, Davith, will too be laying dead at your feet. I bring him to you, alongside Lord Rikmar. If you do not trust me, trust him. He will come this way soon, asking for supplies and swords sworn to his cause. Yet you know he will see you cannot survive the winter, will not take your rice and mutton. Davith would take your food, your women, and destroy your homes!" She gestures to the charred wood behind her. She is about to continue when another voice, a young man, climbs to her.

"And yet you killed Sensei, as you did these men!" A lance of lightning arcs from the back of the crowd, pressing into her shoulder. She barely feels it, and after it is gone is more confused than scared or angry. The mass of people part around a man her age, like a river parting to a stone. She recognizes him as one of Sensei's older students, with a stronger talent than most. His expression flits from anger to fear in a moment, and he runs as he realizes his attack is useless. She floats for a moment, considering, then quickly glides after him. The crowd follows, abuzz. He is chased into a forest, before tripping over a root and wrenching his ankle. The mob are far behind as Syndra lands before him. He gasps in fear and tries to crawl backwards, away, but collapses after a few metres. His sobbing is a strange sound.

"Why did you attack me?" He gibbers something incoherent, then starts sobbing again. A pressure builds inside of her, recognizable from Lux's room. The magic inside crushes against her iron will. Her hand claws in patterns, drawing power, the air darkening, purple lighting the fool's face. His eyes are closed, his fate accepted. The hissing comes to her again, burying her under it, driving her from her own mind. She gasps, spine arched, and then the relentless tide against her willpower evaporates. The built up power explodes in a concussive blast, flattening trees for dozens of metres. The cacophony attracts the mob and shakes the student from his prayers. This time, it was easier to resist. She hadn't come as close to spiralling out of control. The student was staring up at her. His fear had evaporated, for some reason. Her hand, almost unbidden, extended, pale. Without breaking his stare from her face, his hand clasped hers. He climbed to his feet and then, once stable, fell to one knee. Her head was still swimming, still caught up in the clash of wills. Her eyes wouldn't focus.

"Thank you for sparing my life, my Queen. I will find Lord Rikmar's army, and help in in your name." His eyes do not blink, seeing something she cannot, the Light inside of her that had risen to beat back the tide of Dark. His heart is still, his mind pure, his aims clear. He walks off towards the villagers, an approaching sea of torches and farming implements. As he fades into the shade under the canopy, Syndra focuses her will. Her shadow tumbles from thin air, torn from its realm, and immediately starts screaming silently. Its agony presses down on Syndra as her magic presses down on it. As the earth starts to collapse under the force of her power, its screaming twists into something discernible.

" _P-Please Mistress, please, I serve you f-AIIII-thfully,_ _ **please,**_ _I am your humbleservantIsimply-!"_ The pressure lifts from it, and immediately the begging stops. She cannot kill it without severing her own soul. She cannot take the risk. The thing fades from view like a dimming light. She rises through a gap in the canopy, following a beam of sunlight, and then onwards.

* * *

She arrives after dusk. It is dark, but the night is lit up by the fires of the camping army. The soldiers were mostly settled, in groups, getting ready for their afternoon meal, presumably. The smoke was practically choking the night sky, dozens of camp fires throwing a blanket of soot into the sky. It made Syndra's eyes water. She floated through the air, trying to make out details from the camp below, if there was any grander tents set aside for the higher-ups. Apparently, there wasn't, or Syndra couldn't see it. She coughed, grimaced, and had an idea.

* * *

None saw as the smoke started to gather like rainclouds, pressing against an invisible barrier in the sky. When the blanket started to drift, lowering, none bothered to look up. When it swept against the ground and rolled over their camp like a cloud of death, they saw. The response was slow, alarms spreading, the night hiding the aftermath. The camp slowly picked itself up and crawled away, like an animal too fat to care for the predator, and when it had moved just so that it was spilling out into the opposite end of the valley, the smoke mysteriously dissipated once more, the hands holding it letting go once more. The camp had shrunk a small amount, asphyxiation and desertion. She saw such a group moving quickly and directly away from the camp; they were quite far by the time the smoke had cleared enough for her to see them. It was small, maybe two dozen people, and they were clearly running from something. She imagined they were escaped slaves or conscripts of some sort, and thus plummeted down from the sky, landing daintily a dozen metres forwards. At first, none noticed, due to the dark and the fact that they were paying attention to potential pursuers. When one man glanced forwards and saw her, he yelped, and then the rest turned their focus. Immediately, a short muscled man wrestled through them, holding a bloodied hatchet. The group stopped a healthy distance away, and the leader - with the rest of the men, armed, four in total, at his side - stepped forward.

"Are you here to stop us?" Syndra considers her answer for a moment.

"No. I suppose I'm here to help you." Unconsciously, as she says it, her feet lift off the floor and her eyes, unblinking, glow from within, a Dark purple.

"You caused the smoke cloud?" He sounded scared, as he should be.

"Your camp caused it. I simply blew it in the right direction. If you continue to travel for two days, you should meet Rikmar's army, if you wish the protection. I ask that _you_ stay, however; I have need of you." She smiles, not that he can see her. The group behind him are starting to fidget nervously, unwilling to stay still. She can't blame them. He comes to a quick decision, waving them onwards. Like a breaking dam, the tide of humanity washes past and is gone in seconds, eerily silent; haunted. The leader stands still, wishing to go last and make sure of no betrayal.

"In return for this service, I wish a service from you." The man slowly nods, wary.

"What service do you ask?" She realizes something; the men were all carrying proper weapons, wearing proper clothing, the only ones in the group without bruises and scars from beatings. They were turncoats. She considered this; did he deserve to live, having served aside rapists and murderers, bandits? Was he one of them, a momentary change of heart forcing his hand? She knew the lies of morality. 'Good' was a lie, a tale told to children to protect them from the harsh truths of the world. 'Evil' was a label applied to the misunderstood, the victims of circumstance. She didn't care if what he did was good, if his soul was black and evil. Hers was too, after all. All that matters is what he makes of himself, of what he does now; his intentions for his afterlife.

"What is your name, turncoat?" The question catches him off guard.

"Mordreth, my Lady, of my mother's name, Ravver." He speaks the truth, but he doesn't know why.

"A fine name, Sir Mordreth. I hope your service under me will leave you a whole man." He seems relaxed, but she can see his muscles are tensed. The hand holding his weapon is white.

"And what service would that be, my Lady?" He manages to say it without cracking.

"I need you to help me defeat Davith."

* * *

The two stand on the crest of the valley above Davith's forces. A pair of guards lie at their feet, unmoving. Mordreth isn't a stranger to death or killing, but the manner in which they died… It was effortless for her, a mere gesture. He wondered if it was as easy to make the choice as to carry it out. She stepped up to the ridge and he flinched. If she was anyone else he would have grasped her and pulled her down to the floor to get her out of sight. Instead, he hisses, lying belly down next to her.

"My lady! If you stand up on the horizon like that, they can see your silhouette! Please, step down!" She turns and gives him a curious look, then nods thoughtfully. A strange shadow falls over them, but she doesn't listen to his advice or otherwise step back.

"Stand up, Sir Mordreth. They cannot see us." The only reason he stands up is because it doesn't matter if she does too, and hell, he's had enough of sneaking around. He doesn't know why she calls him Sir, but that isn't the strangest thing about her. Below them, the camp is sprawled once more, though the number of fires is significantly reduced. A twinge of guilt strikes her, but it passes. She had completed her intended purpose; to drive them to the other end of the valley.

"Where does Davith sleep? And his generals?" The turncoat freezes, entirely unable to answer. He wasn't any particularly special man, just a mook with a weapon. She turns to him, eyebrow raised, and he stutters out something intelligible. After a moment she turns back. A section of the ground in front of them boils and coalesces into a black form. Arms split off and a mouth grows, eyes blinking. Again, a sound nips at the periphery of his senses. He stares at the thing as it sways back and forth, mouth moving in a mockery of speech. Suddenly, the woman beside him speaks.

"You will hunt out the generals of Davith and eliminate them. Make it silent, unnoticed until morning. Afterwards, you will report to Lord Rikmar and tell him what you've done. Meanwhile…" She turns to him and the… _Thing_ disappears. Where it stood in his vision is a dark stain, like a foul taste.

"Where do they cook the food?" He can answer this at least, pointing to a small cluster of fires at the far end. She can see men gathering like bees to a hive, presumably waiting for food.

"About a dozen men. Most of it is bread and gruel, grain stolen from the nearby villages. Meat is rare and mostly in broth. We don't get anything better, cheese and such, so it must go to Davith." She nods and starts walking off in no particular direction. He follows at a distance he considers not nearly far enough. At one point he goes to take a step and his stomach rises into his throat and the ground disappears beneath him and suddenly reforms as he falls to his knees and vomits.

The woman kneels next to him, looking concerned as he pants, unable to form anything meaningful.

"Sorry, I've never taken anyone else conscious through the shadows. I didn't realise it would make you nauseous." He considers a scathing response, spits, and rises to his feet. Taking a moment to look around, he recognizes the area. They are behind the cook's tent, on the edge of the camp; one side of the valley slopes up next to them. Syndra rises into the air above him, hovering a foot above the floor. He considers the fact that anyone who wasn't blind could see her like a purple spotlight, then tells her this fact. She responds with a snort, smiling. It shocks him into silence. She wanders off towards the tent, and as they come round the side it reveals a dozen men energetically trying to re-create the dinner they had already prepared but was mostly abandoned in the mad rush.

Mordreth immediately ducks back, hissing and gesticulating for her to reciprocate. It is as he does so that a man walks straight past him, stumbling drunkenly and asking when he's going to get his fucking food. There is no way he couldn't have seen Syndra, and then recalls what she had said earlier on the ridge. Feeling an idiot, he moves to stand next to her. She looks over at his scowl and giggles unbidden. His jaw drops open, the change in emotion extraordinary. The smile stays in place as she gestures around the hectic area and the drunk is chased away. Her task apparently completed, she turns to him.

"Prepare yourself, I am going to move us through the shadows again." He nods and breathes heavily. His reply is in whispers, though apparently they don't need to be. He can't help it.

"Where are we going? And what did you do here?" She nods as if those are good questions, then he's suddenly standing on the ridge again. He manages to keep his food down as she replies.

"The food is poisoned. It will render all who eat it very, very ill. It will only last two or three days, however, as I need the men to be able to fight when Lord Rikmar's army gets here. You've done well, Sir Mordreth." The question leaps from him, hidden anger driving it to be almost accusatory.

"Why do you keep calling me Sir? I'm just another man that joined Davith for some plunder!" There is silence for a few seconds as his voice fades, wishing he could take it back. She looks upon him with an unreadable expression, during which he is relatively sure she is going to kill him like the two guards.

"I am a Queen, Sir Mordreth. You are one of my knights. Or is that only in Demacia?" The raider isn't sure what to think. He has heard only tales of Demacia, and not many at that.

"A knight, my Queen? Are you sure? What… What have I done to deserve… Such an honour?" His tone suggested that this was far less an honour than Syndra made it out to be. She either didn't notice or didn't care. He decides to try harder to express his displeasure next time.

"You were instrumental in the destruction of Davith's forces. And there is nought for you to do before I send you to Rikmar's army, whom you will travel with until Davith is crushed." His mouth opens and closes, unformed words trying to make themselves known, but speech failing him.

"Tell me Mordreth, do you have a family?" The words spring from him as his mind continues to protest.

"Y-Yes, my lady, two sons. One of them is somewhere out in the world with his own wife, and the other is still but a babe. We… We live quite close by, in a little house I built with my pa years ago." Syndra smiles at him, a smile which makes her seem less an intimidating Tyrant and more the girl she is. He isn't sure whether he likes it, but wishes she would use it more nonetheless

"Then, my knight, prepa-"

The noise the arrow makes as it buries itself into Syndra's chest, right into her heart, haunts Mordreth to this day.

Syndra seems more in shock than pain. One hand reaches up to grasp the offending object, inquisitive, whilst the other moves in quick, twisting patterns. Mordreth turns with axe raised- drawn with a far less than fluid grace, he was ashamed to admit - to where the arrow came from. He was unsure as to how he could help, and if he should at all, considering his new employer now has an arrow sprouting from her chest. Another arrow follows the first which thankfully both misses and reveals the shooter. Mordreth even manages to take a step before he is knocked to the floor with a wave of force, a shriek promising pain greater than he had ever imagined following. He hears a startled scream - cut off with a wet squelch - from the shooter. This all happens in the space of a moment, and then the dark, scuttling little _things_ sprout from the ground and rocks. They shimmer with purple, but are painful to look at. A chorus of voices drill into his skull, his vision blurred. Blood drips down his neck from his nose, and he can't hear his own screaming as the pressure builds up, higher, and higher-

"Harm not my knight!" The pressure lifts, his heart pounding like a drum to match his head. He falls to his hands and knees and vomits the rest of his food, his equilibrium shot. He can vaguely see his Queen struggling against some unknown force, then with another shout the scuttling shapes vanish. A pale hand shakes in his vision; or is it his head that is shaking? Blearily, he reaches out and grasps it, lifted to his feet and vomiting again as the sudden change overwhelms him once more. His throat is burning now. His Queen presses one dainty hand to his forehead and the poor man is blinded in a sudden white flash. When it clears he is standing easy, the ringing and pounding headache faded to a minor annoyance. The burn of bile in his throat is cleared. His eyesight is slightly sharper, and a few aches he didn't know he had were lifted like a mantle from his shoulders. His Queen stands before him, rising from a crouch, and with her smile and a soft halo of light, his fear evaporates as easily as the pain. He isn't sure what to say, or think, but there is one thing that he knows he must do.

"Thank you, my Lady, for… I believe saving my life. What… What were those things?" Her smile thaws, but is remembered by both. He sees her for what she is. He sees _more_ , now, inside of her, to the light that is trying to shine through the choking darkness. His throat closes, and a strange emotion, a strange thought, wipes over him. She needs his help. She cannot survive in the Dark alone.

"An… Errant servant of mine. Do not worry." He doesn't; if she says not to, he will believe her. He looks around; there are dark stains, like shadows, on the ground, in the shape of those revolting bug-things. He can vaguely see splatters of red, blood, from beyond a pile of rocks where the archer was. He realises he had dropped the hatchet and grasps it, covering the blade once more with the sheath. It is then he sees that the arrow is still sticking out of her chest. He gasps, takes a step back, and she looks down. With a bored gesture, she grasps it and pulls. It slides out with a wet sucking sound, and clatters to the floor. Even her clothes seem unharmed. She otherwise ignores it.

"Envision your house. Your wife." He swallows his shock and replies, tongue heavy.

"O-Of course. May I ask why?" She reaches out and presses a hand to his shoulder, eyes darkened. He sees only the halo of light that is not there any more.

"Prepare yourself. We are to travel. Try not to lose your stomach again." He chuckles, somehow not minding the humour. Her smile, however, is dead and buried.

He closes his eyes and remembers when he had finished the house with his pa, who was dead now. He'd died in bed, happy and peaceful. His face was cragged like a rock, deep lines from both frowns and smiles. His hair was grey, but still full, a shock of colour against the dark tan of his skin. He'd worked hard, fourteen hours a day, fit as a fiddle. His life was filled with love, but was a meagre one. He scrounged every penny, then put it together to give his son the one good thing he could. He thought of his wife, whom he'd met at the market. They'd both been trying to sell food and bolts of silk, and reached an agreement; to split the money they both earned between them, to make sure neither went hungry. She was probably at home now, singing a song to their son, in their house in the woods.

* * *

He opened his eyes and was standing outside the cabin; Syndra was nowhere to be seen. His wife opened the door, his father's rusty sword held in hand, shaking like a leaf. She yelled out as her eyes adjusted to the light, the other hand shielding her from the sun.

"Stay away, or you'll regret it! Leave us alone!" He could hear his son crying inside.

"It is me, Allia! I am back!" His voice wavers.

"Mordreth? Oh, it is you!" He ran to her and she dropped the sword, wordlessly embracing him. She smelt as he remembered, of a good summer day; dew and barley.

"I'm so glad you're back," she whispered. He knelt and grasped the sword, sheathing it reverently.

"I'm so glad I'm back, too. I missed you." They broke apart after an eternity. She kissed him, and his heart sank as he realized something. He moved inside the cabin, keeping the sword in hand. Their son was still bawling, unsettled. He picked him up and swayed him, whispering sweet nothings. His wife took over after Bron had mostly calmed. Remembering his task, Mordreth climbed up into the second floor as Allia grilled him on his journey. He'd left several months ago, just as Bron had been born, to join Davith's army. Davith had threatened to burn the farm down unless half of the men on the farm had joined him. He imagined his farmhands were escorting the slave women to Rikmar's army even now. The story was mostly done - since he and his farmhands had avoided going out to extort the villages, it was almost all guard duty - once he'd found what he was looking for; a whetstone. He climbed back down as his wife fed Bron, blouse open, and realized he hadn't seen his wife for several months. He decided the sword could wait for a day, sitting next to her and doing his best to sear her into his memory. When their son fell asleep, he did his best to sear him into hers.

And yet, despite laying in his wife's arms, his mind continues to wander to Syndra. He doesn't know why she isn't here. He doesn't know why she sent him, yet didn't come. He doesn't know why he wants to get up, take the sword he sharpened, and find her, but he knows he must. She needs his help. She can save the world, he knows it, but she must be helped by all who are able… He doesn't know why or how he knows this, but it is as true a fact as his love for Allia, and his son. He doesn't know how to broach this subject to his wife, but that doesn't faze him. He will find Syndra again.

* * *

Syndra watched as the shadows cocooned him. He had a blissful smile on his face. His memories were clear as she pulled them from him, leaving behind just a shard of Dark power. As he vanished, the tears escaped her. She would never - could never - have that. A loving family, or a house filled with memories. All she had was a dark castle and unwilling subjects. As she thought this, the insectoid Dark elementals crawled once more from the ground. They were less elementals and more manifestations, a result of heavy Dark corruption; if she was to swell an area with death, they would appear naturally. For now, however, as weak as they were, they would serve her purpose.

"Find the scouts of Davith, the guards, the rangers and foragers. Kill them all. Let none leave the boundaries of the camp. Make them afraid of me." A scuttling chorus harmonises within her. The way Mordreth reacted before, to him it was agonising. She could feel his pain, his suffering. To her, it was a heavenly - or infernal, she supposed - choir. They hissed and rattled and were gone, hunting.

Rising once more into the air, she saw dots of fire roaming in the forest and hills around the valley flicker, swoon, and die with the lives of those who carried them. She could feel a sort of connection to each and every mite, when they killed and were killed, in pain or exultant in victory. It was hard to separate her experiences and theirs, but she would not be overridden by a pack of minor beings. It took several hours for Davith to pull the rest of his men in and stop sending patrols that weren't a score or larger. His men were lined for drills, suddenly so aware that if Rikmar were to plunge from the valley's sides, he'd be crushed utterly. Most of his soldiers had become acutely ill with some wasting sickness which no one had ever seen. He wasn't a sitting duck, he was an injured duck unable to run from the pack that chased it. Which was just how Syndra wanted him. Now, even if there were scouts outside the camp, and even if they spotted Rikmar and came back to tell Davith, they would have a very hard time getting in to do so.

So far, the plan has gone well. It is only a matter of time until it comes fully to fruition, and then nothing will stand between her and Lux.


	5. The Dark Learns

AN:

A bit of a short one, this time. I wanted to have all the fighting in one compressed cut for the next chapter, and then a little something much more fun after ;)

* * *

She drifted down to the forest floor. Roughly two days had passed; Davith's men would recover, weakened, by the end of the next. Rikmar would arrive then, and prepare his attack. She had spent the time reinforcing the chittering creatures that bowed to her will, as their losses were great in carrying out that divine will. Yet this was not a sincere challenge. Thus she hunted out moments to strike, inflicting chaos, fear, and death upon the camp. She wished the time had passed more rapidly; it was, though unbecoming of her, boring beyond her previous imaginings. But that did not solve her current conundrum; simply, she had another day in which to do anything she wished. It was a strange feeling. Deciding to get some rest whilst she still could, Syndra landed at the foot of a large tree which towered over its neighbours. She felt this was a worthy place to sleep; it was far from Davith's camp, secluded, and she felt a queer sense of security lying under the great tree. She didn't know what type it was, but hoped that it was special in some way. She lay, wondering about the tree who sheltered her, and woke up to a voice screaming in her head for her to move. Calmly floating to her feet, the voices multiplied. She was to run, hide, escape, go anywhere that wasn't here. She was not scared. She could _feel_ a presence nearby. It wasn't malign or benign; simply existing. But she couldn't see it. Inside her mind, the voices scattered at the entry of another.

 _You disturb the balance. This balance must be kept, between spirit and human. I am sorry for what I must do._

Syndra did not see the blade that sliced across her neck. She could feel the pain explode inside of her, and blood pressed through a gaping wound in her neck. Falling to her knees, she could hear the voice praying for her soul. Pressing a hand against her throat, magic spilled forth in a rush she didn't even ask for, but which closed her neck and filled her veins and left her standing. She opened her senses as Sensei had told her; a third eye blinked and was dazzled by the beauty of what she saw. A man stood before her, dressed in dark shades of black and purple and green. His stance was exact, his palms pressed together in an arcane template that she did not recognise. His eyes were a blank purple, much like hers. He stared at her, otherwise unmoving. The hilts of two swords crossed over his shoulders, and a third, large as her, hovered in a way that looked menacing and spoke serenity. Prepared for another blinding attack, she pooled her magic inside of her, a thick wave of Dark climbing from her and pouring into the surrounding terrain as her control slipped in the mad rush for power. The tree beside her started to rot, creaking, and immediately she stopped. Without a thought for her own safety, she reversed her power, drawing the Dark inside and leaving behind a strange absence, one that Light filled as water did an empty cup. The tree sprung up and healed and grew, taller than ever. The man had not moved, and she turned to him, hesitant before stating:

"I know not of your balance. I know simply that I am, and I will be. You will not stop me or my plans. I wish no harm on you or your spirits. Leave me be, or suffer the consequences." To her now enhanced sight, she could see the effect of her magic. Pressing against the veil, she drew forth a half dozen spheres of Void. As they fell through, the world rippled and peeled back, retreating from them. It looked like running paint, leaving behind the normal, physical realm. The man's eyes - she did not think how she could see them, but instinctively knew in a way - darted from her, to her spheres, to the tree, a rapid chain of decisions made unblinkingly. The man swiftly bowed, conclusion reached, and intoned to her in a voice that was cripplingly monotone.

 _I am sorry, Lady Syndra. I had believed you to be a disciple of the Shadow Order, and their practices abhorr the very worlds around us._

The sentence startles her. Syndra has indeed heard of the Shadow Order; boogeymen, tales told to scare children, blamed for misfortunes and disasters across the world. She was interested in joining them, for a time, to further hone her Dark magic; they were, after all, the masters of it. But Sensei had managed to talk her out of it, as he had many things, not to mention the difficulty of finding and being initiated by them. She had not thought of them in a long time. Perhaps she had best start doing so. Her eyes narrow.

"I concern myself not with those misguided fools. Yes, they are skilled. But they are _weak,_ and I am strong. I have no love for them." The strange, purple man doesn't react physically, yet she can tell the words have struck a nerve. A tense minute passes as they stare - two sides of a bent coin - and he comes to a semblance of a decision, one hand lancing out to point in a seemingly random direction. The eyes, however, keep firmly chained to her own.

 _Do you see their perverse temple, Lady? The sight should be familiar, for one such as yourself._

She looks off and lets her eyes lose focus and dips her sight into that other world. She can see it, now that it is pointed out to her; there is a hole in the world, like the effects of her orbs, yet grossly multiplied, swollen beyond belief. It is a sickly, cancerous growth, leeching the power from this world, leaving a husk behind. She momentarily entertains wiping the source from the world, but thinks she might cause more harm than good, and instead looks back to the man, and nods, trying to discover a motive. Her voice is direct, and scathing, scornful.

"A rotting wound on the soul of the world. What about it?" He ignores the question, instead nodding slowly, thoughtfully, before replying.

 _Today, the balance is kept in place. Soon, I will return. My duty demands it. May you live well until then._

He chants and waves his hands in a strict but fluid series of motions, then vanishes in a flash of purplish light. She was left agape, blood starting to dry on her throat. With a wave, shadows washed up and over, taking the filth with it. In a strange sort of dazed shock, not quite comprehending what just happened, she sat back down at the foot of the tree, floating gently so as to not jar her frame. Who was he? He had moved like none she had seen, and indeed, had shown abilities she didn't know of. He was _inside_ the spirit world. She wasn't sure how that was possible… Lifting her head upwards, she realized it was light, but getting dark again; pink light dyeing the sky in a spectrum of beauty. She'd missed almost an entire day… How was that possible? Turning her focus inward, nothing was wrong. In fact, the rest had done her good. The strain of the Void creatures was severely lessened to the point of almost disappearing completely, though admittedly, since the star in her soul began its imperative duty, it had become much easier to sustain and summon the demons. It was nice to be able to ignore the world for a time, short as it was, and a new experience. A welcome experience. She would have to undertake such an endeavour - to do nothing, and relax - more often. Hopefully with Lux, that it might develop into something that Syndra knew she hungered for, ached for, yet did not know the identity or motive of. And indeed, thinking of the Light star, there was a pulse; a strange rhythm throbbing to a beat unseen and unheard, but felt. Following a trail of latent magic, she stepped into the shadows and arrived at the edge of a tree-lined path. She could hear something, and the trail led in that direction.

* * *

She pressed forwards through the undergrowth, when necessary melting through grasping vines. The sounds got louder and louder and quickly realized it was the sound of a baby. She'd never heard one, the inane babbling of an infant, but she knew of it from her other lives. Breaking into dazzling sunlight, pushing a weak branch from her face, she was met with a clearing. There was a patch of broken trees, probably from a lightning strike, on one of which sat two people. The burbling sounds emanated from the small blob of fat being bounced up and down on the man's knee. Beside him sat a woman, giggling as much as the baby. Their backs were to Syndra, and apparently they hadn't noticed her. It took a moment to realize the man was Mordreth. The others must be his family. They looked as happy as his memories suggested. She wasn't sure being flung into the air was fun, personally, though flying held a certain thrill. Maybe for those who cannot control their own gravity as she can, the substitute is just as good. She didn't want to break this idyllic moment, watching them. They were simply being a family, and who was she to impose? And yet, this wasn't his cabin, wasn't where she left him. Where was her knight going?

"Sir Mordreth?" In a movement too fast to see, he was up with sword drawn, the baby safely ensconced in his wife's arms. His face was a mix of fear and anger until he saw Syndra. He smiled, his wife looking on in a mix of horror and confusion. It seems justified.

"W-Who is this, husband?" The baby was crying, reacting to the tension his mother exhibited. It was a grating sound to Syndra, but she found something inside of her didn't mind. Mordreth shushed their son, sheathing the sword, then turned to her.

"A pleasant coincidence we are to meet again, my Queen. I was travelling to Rikmar's army, hoping to serve you once more." His wife's face has relaxed into a more angry pose, mostly directed at him.

"Why would you hope that? I released you from my command. I… You deserve a happy life." His face hardens a little, falling back into a practiced mask.

"I am your knight, you said it yourself. I will serve you until my death, or yours, my Lady." She is startled by his loyalty, perhaps thinking he was acting from fear or some sort of perceived debt.

"I thank you for your service to me, but why bring your family?" She turns and takes a step towards Allia, who flinches. Their son has calmed, making noises and giggling. Mordreth comes up behind her and wraps his arms around her shoulders, placating, and guides her to Syndra.

"She wouldn't let me go again. Wouldn't let me out of her sight." Allia smiles shyly, remembering the argument. Syndra looks on her with a new light, then nods, respectful. Mordreth says something but she doesn't realize; her mind has refocused on the pulse from her soul, a steady beat. It has amplified, and now she looks closely she can sense two. One shouts at the presence of her knight, deafening once her ears tune to its pitch, and the other is forlorn; its brother's echo is far, far away. Snapping back to reality, her knight repeats his question.

"My Queen? Can you hear me?" His face is slightly confused and concerned. His wife is unhappy, holding the cute lump, who is markedly more content simply lying there. Lazy baby.

"Yes, I… I fear, Mordreth, that the travel will be dangerous. I have trapped Davith's scouts from his army, and they will be desperate. It would be safe if you got there as quickly as possible… And I have a very quick method." Mordreth grimaces, remembering his first time through the shadows. He looks down at his wife, who gazes back at him, and his son, who is sucking a thumb, happily mumbling, ignorantly blissful. He takes a shaky breath, then nods, tightening his grip on the ones he loves.

"Prepare, Allia. I will hold Bron. It can be... Unpleasant." Syndra nods, steps close, and lays a hand on the two of them. His love is scared, frozen, and he presses a kiss to her temple. Syndra's face twists into a small smile, unbidden, and then they are standing at the edge of a ring of pale light, shadows pressing tightly to it, trying to deny it ground. His wife leans back against him, retching, and Bron immediately starts crying, liquid dribbling from his chin. He calms both as Syndra strides forward. She is used to the rigours of travelling in the shadow; she can seamlesslly step from one to another, as long as her magic allows.

The darkness recedes like a tide, and the light springs forward to reclaim its territory. She steps into the light and immediately a voice challenges her. It cracks, tremulous, but courage and loyalty reinforces it. She drifts into the air, the light momentarily blinding her. A purple glow emanates from her eyes, dimming the glare to a bareable level. This reveals a soldier, a young recruit, but trained well. He stands tall, spear extended. After a few seconds of staring at the Dark-wreathed figure, the boy realizes just who he is threatening, and dissolves into a stuttering, nervous mess. Her knight steps out from the darkness beside her; dressed in armour of deepest blackness, his sword a Void of life. His voice is deep and commanding, and the orders he gives are fair and true. The man's words ring out, booming, demanding loyalty, utterly undeniable. This is, at least, what the young recruit would tell his equally wide-eyed friends later.

When Davith's body was still warm in its grave, his army crushed, his last hopes dashed.

"Take us to Rikmar. We have business with him. And quickly, boy. " At once, the sentry turned and practically sprinted off. Like an eager puppy, he stopped every so often to check they were still following. Taking them through a guard station to send a replacement for his patrol, it took them a full few minutes of walking to reach Rikmar's command tent. They passed formations of men and women with swords and shields, training in regiments. Block, thrust, step. Simple, repetitive, efficient. Against a horde of unarmoured men who didn't know how to fight, it would be a massacre. Most Ionian soldiers were lone fighters; they were not made to battle in tight formations with rigid precision. But Rikmar, Noxian by birth, knew of a different tactic. Most of the Noxian army were conscripts, given a blunt sword and a week of training before heading out. But the real soldiers were trained to form walls of hard steel, unbreakable, and this was how he trained those who placed their loyalty in him; superior, expensive, irreplaceable, and above all, impressive to all onlookers.

* * *

The tent was large, but only by necessity, and there were three others nearby with the same guard and design, to deter assassins. Opening the flap, the guards standing at the entrance uneasy, revealed Rikmar and his advisors around a circular table once more. This time, they stood, and between them lay a map with markings and scrawl covering it like scurrying ants. The Lord looked up and smiled at his Queen, then frowned slightly as he saw the three - no, four - others following her. He bows respectfully and the others follow suit, and the flap closes behind the new arrivals. She barely takes a moment to nod before her vision is invariably drawn to Lux, who is at the current moment smiling at her. She represses the smile that wants to mirror it, though it is hard.

"I have brought our Queen, Milord, as she has requested." The recruit's voice cracked but was otherwise steady; Rikmar noted him down for later inspection.

"And who accompanies our fair monarch, on this most auspicious day?" Mordreth steps forward and nods in respect, exempt from bowing to the lord due to his direct loyalty to Syndra.

"I am Sir Mordreth, Lord Rikmar, and this is my Lady Wife, Allia, with our son, Bron. I am pleased to at last meet the commander of my Queen's forces." Rikmar's eye is far more critical of this so-called knight than the green recruit; his armour, if it could be called so - little more than boiled leather - was old and worn. His eyes, however, spoke only fierce devotion. This man would be either a great asset or a dire threat, the old general decided. He noticed, however, that despite the equipment he carried, the man was not a soldier. A conscript or militia, since he knew how to strap on a sword belt, but otherwise not able to swing the thing.

"And I greet you humbly, and invite you to my table as the mouth of our Queen, should she be absent." The knight's face twists with shock, since he has no idea of the etiquette; he was rather hoping the Noxian would be lax in that area. As such, he has no reply but a simple acceptance, without any flowery phrasing. The Lord's eyes narrow, as it would seem his assessment of the man was correct; a farmer or threadbare merchant, thrust into a position he doesn't understand. His wife seems more regal, but they are both nothing besides the natural gravitas of the Queen who stands beside them. However, Rikmar is not a spiteful man; he knows that should this knight make a fool of himself, it would make Syndra look bad, and weaken their position, since their fates are linked intrinsically, for good or bad.

"It is nice to meet an Ionian who can speak plainly, Mordreth! One would think you ate thesauruses as babies!" Mordreth, though caught off guard, can sense an olive branch when one is extended. He joins in with the laughter echoing around the canvas as Syndra drifts over, her face conceding a small smile. As the sound dies down, Rikmar speaks once more.

"What is your name, Lieutenant?" This is directed at the young man who guided them here, still clutching his spear like a lifeline. It takes him a moment to realize it _is_ directed at him.

"M-My name, Milord? Pan, Milord, but I'm no Lieutenant. Milord." Rikmar smiles warmly.

"You are now, Pan, and you will be my liaison and guard for our Queen's most loyal families. Please escort Lady Allia to my tent, and keep watch over her." The soldier hesitates, but his drive to obey overrides his confusion and exultation. Without preamble, he spins and marches out of the tent. Allia kisses her husband, then follows, Bron sleeping soundly. Lux comes over to stand next to her. Syndra lets herself sink to the floor so as to be closer to her, and has to resist the urge to kiss her again. But this time she cannot stop the smile as Lux takes her hand in her own. There is a moment of abject confusion amongst the others present, but a simple man of simpler thoughts, Raltt leans forward, one hand firmly grasping the hilt of his sheathed sword, though more in frustration than anger. Syndra is glad.

"Please, my Queen, tell us of your plan. We have had no resistance, any scouts we found were met accidentally. Thus far Davith has no idea we're here, my men are ready, and if we attack within the hour they will be cut down like so much wheat. It is almost perfect." The other advisors wore grim smiles, filled with too much pain to be happy, and she realized that this - the chance to crush Davith in his entirety - was a wish many of them had held for a long time. Mydaltt's eyes were narrowed, furious, burning a hole through the map where Davith's encampment rested. Raltt is grinning, predatory, happy to finally pin the roach that is Davith to the ground.

This is a part of why Syndra did not simply annihilate Davith herself. She does not wish to become too alike the Justicar, an all powerful deity, who though available to protect and serve, is not human, is too far above a normal person to talk to. If she were to have the ground open up and swallow Davith and his army whole, her rule would be assured, her influence all-encompassing. But she would be above them. They had failed, and she had succeeded. Either they would grow resentful - as any debt grows such an emotion - or distant; because of the simple, terrifying truth that she could do the same to them and they are thus powerless in the face of her whims. She is a Queen, and she must listen to her subjects and be listened to, must communicate and have a hand in their everyday affairs. Thus Rikmar and his soldiers must have a hand in Davith's death; they must believe that she needs them, and they need her. However there is another aspect to her reluctance to singlehandedly kill Davith and all who follow him.

She doesn't want to see all that blood on her hands, to wake up and hear the screams of her victims as they die like vermin at the hands of a merciless deity.

Lamol wasn't present, presumably overseeing supplies and weapons for the soldiers. Narrla has recovered from the events of the castle, and in her hands rests a new wand, which she is twirling anxiously. There is magic stored inside, but Syndra doesn't know what; it could be anything. Whilst Lux is a master of a singular element, Narrla is more like Syndra. She has access to all the magics, no matter the wind or lore. Lux's wand, therefore, can contain only Light magic; or more likely is a focus for her own natural talent. Narrla, like Syndra, is either skilled or gifted enough to not need one, and thus can use such an object to contain spare mana. Speaking of magic, she sees the noticeable absence of Roland and Lem, stalwart bodyguards of the Lord.

"Before we move onto strategy, I must ask where your mages are. They, and Narrla, will play an important part in the fight to come." Rikmar's eyes flash in a way she cannot decipher, since he hasn't told her the names of his advisors, but it passes quickly; she is full of surprises, this one of the least so.

"They are training a young man who volunteered, a Stormbrewer, who arrived only yesterday. He will join them in the attack." Syndra smiles, hands crossed lightly behind her back.

"No. I have something in plan for him. He is to join Pan in the guarding of Lady Allia." Rikmar raises an eyebrow. The gesture, though small, holds a weight defying explanation.

"You know of him? How?" She starts to explain that they were both Sensei's students, that he attacked her thinking she was still a murderer, how he was mistaken. The problem was, however…

He wasn't. She _was_ a murderer.

She's killed Sensei in cold blood, and every student had seen it. She realizes that she hasn't thought about it - his death, or the sudden and jarring events over the last week - that had followed. There had been just over two dozen students, Syndra being the second oldest of them. This Stormbrewer was the third oldest, and the most senior of them all had been the grating harpy who Syndra had hated above everything else. She sometimes wondered how she resisted the temptation to kill her, when it was so easy. The girl had been an accomplished mage, and a good person by all respects.

That was why Syndra hated her with such passion.

Looking back on the past ten years, now removed only by a few days, she realized what an unforgiving bitch she'd been to the kind girl, who had no crimes but being popular and friendly. She felt a gnawing in her gut, to think that she'd been so close to ending that existence, but she brushed it off. She'd apologize when they met next, as they undoubtedly would, one day soon.

"He was the next youngest student of Sensei's. He, with the rest, ran when Sensei died… No, when I killed him. When I tore the temple from the ground. He trusts me, and I trust him. He will guard Allia. And I will need someone to train Mordreth. Either way, bring Roland and Lem here, after they're done. Narrla, you will have to fill them in on the plan I'm about to tell you all." There was fear in their eyes, after her open admission of murder, but that didn't stop them from listening as intently as possible as she outlined the part they all had in the battle to come. After all, for all of her wrongdoings and evil deeds, they were about to not only commit such atrocities, but under her order, aware of their consequences. They must either forgive her of these past transgressions, or subject themselves to their own baseless morality and discard it upon the realization it is worthless. She doesn't yet know which is the outcome she wants.


	6. The Light Teaches

AN:

The culmination of Davith's demise, the beginning of a second arc (and the connection to 'The Price of Freedom'[Not that I've written any of that yet] and the precursor to some Lundra citrus.

* * *

An hour later, Syndra rose up from the camp like a Dark, wingless angel, inspiring no small part of awe and fear in the watching soldiers, who were lined in formations and ready to march, hidden behind a line of trees and the mouth of the valley. Swooping through the currents of air, she took a moment to enjoy and reflect on the peacefulness. It was a harsh contrast to what would come soon, one that would make Syndra long for anything else, that would shake the island of Ionia from its slumber, that would bring foes to fight together and alliances to crumble like so much dust in the wind.

Bloody, glorious, life-ending, corpse choked death on a scale like no other until the Noxian invasion.

War.

She drifted from the clouds, cold wisps of vapour following her in her descent. Below was arrayed the forces of Davith, entirely unprepared and unaware of what awaited them. Syndra fancied herself a relatively humble person, who would not overuse the power of theatrics, would not hesitate to strike at a long-sought enemy even if she hadn't given a lengthy monologue. But that didn't stop her laughing darkly, her voice amplified to carry to the huddled masses below. Both armies shook in fear at the sound, though only one would truly understand what it meant to be on the receiving end of its propagator. A sweeping, clawed hand, a grand gesture, a surge of Dark power… And it was begun.

* * *

Davith had mostly given up on patrols and pickets. His generals had been found, one by one, throats cut or crushed, some emaciated like they'd aged decades in minutes. His men were scared, demoralised, and between the scuttling _things_ in the darkness and desertion, were dropping like flies. He was sat in a poorly constructed throne, hewn rough wood and a coarse carpet flung over the seat, all stolen. It was perhaps the most uncomfortable thing he'd sat on in his entire life, but it made him tall and imposing and it gave him a good enough view over the camp. He tried to sit in it as little as possible, since it made him an easy target for assassins - not to mention that his arse ached after a few minutes of perching on the edge. He made an exception now; his kingdom was crumbling around him like it was built on sand. He supposed it was - he had no illusions that one day his tyranny would be put to an end - but he had never thought it would happen so soon or so suddenly.

It had taken the course of a day to be utterly fucked. With a dry laugh, sitting on this shitty throne, he realized all he needed was a crown and he'd be _royally_ fucked. He'd run if the shadows wouldn't eat him alive, would fight if he didn't think he'd lose, would call once more on the dark powers he'd used to rise to this position if they hadn't abandoned him, attracted to some other Dark beacon. He played idly with a long, wicked knife, totally smooth and sharp enough to cut through cured leather. He spun it, threw it, splayed it between his hands. As a boy, he'd cut himself more than anyone else doing this, but now he'd perfect- _ow, fuck._

Bright blood welled from a shallow cut on the side of his index finger. It stung like hell, but the greatest risk was having it swell with death and fall off. Channelling the last of his power, he drew the blood out of the wound in a whip, a long line connected to his vein, swelling. It always created a strange sensation - like his hand was a deflating balloon - but after a while it stopped, leaving the tendril to grow. The dark red lash curled and roiled in the air, then quivered and collapsed onto the floor. It splashed in a perfect circle, dots and marks and runes forming with exact accuracy. Arcane markings of blood, to draw, store, and shape power in an exact ritual. After a few moments of the blood lying in the open sun, glistening wetly, it started to glow. The area darkened, the sun unable to penetrate the Dark magic that coagulated around the thickening blood. Lying back against his throne, grateful for the shade - a nice side affect - his reverie was broken by the harsh and barely understandable voice of his major-domo, Taddro.

"Is that wise, Milord?" His accent was impenetrable, even though his understanding of Ionian was perfect. Coming from Shurima, a legendary land of deserts, sun, and trade, now fallen to the sand it rose from. The upheaval after the Emperor's death was total, and Taddro had fled from the chaos. Davith's lip curls in disgust; mostly at himself.

"I am sure it isn't, but there are no options left to me. I must procure aid from any source, or we are all doomed. The small fry have not answered my calls in some time… And to catch the biggest fish you need the biggest bait." Even as the words leave his mouth, the blood on the ground starts to bubble. It writhes, crawls, and finally starts to collect, drawn into the centre of some red whirlpool. Only Davith's most trusted men - of whom there aren't many left - stand close enough to witness, for only they understand the ease of power that blood brings. Those others nearby, hidden from sight by screens of wood and paper, hear sinister whispers at the edge of hearing, shivering for no discernible reason. Davith… Davith hears the screams of the damned and dying, the souls of those foolish enough to sign a gore-soaked pact with the beings that lay beneath the surface of the normal world, evil, strong, and _hungry._

 _Who calls the Devourer? What foolish, arrogant man would dare to pull me forth from slumber?_ Davith can hear the voice echo, and then, he knows, inside, that whatever being may be watching is watching him. The whirlpool is sucking, greedy, now; it curls away into the ground as if it was a hole to the Underworld itself. it likely is, indeed, and a much easier entrance than the Shadow Isles. On the other side… Damnation.

And _power._

Davith stands on his throne, towering over his advisors by several feet due to his natural stature and the wood beneath him. The knife is in his hand again, somehow, and poised over the wrist of his arm… He can see the red life pumping beneath, begging to be used.

"I call you, damned being, Dark force, unholy wretch. I, Emperor Davith, summon you forth that I might parley, and reach an accord, and you will listen to my demands!" The voice laughs mockingly, and all the advisors wince simultaneously as their souls recoil at the presence of the being.

 _A bold statement, fool. But I will listen...Choose your words wisely, lest they be your last…_ Davith flourishes with the knife, cutting a swift, precise mark into his flesh, the lines scoring against the bone inside his arm. He doesn't wince, gasp, or otherwise react, the pain dulled by a siren's call that tugs on his soul.

"You will deliver me unto riches and power, destroy the oh-so-noble Rikmar, and ensure that I will not die as long as Runeterra exists to serve me, and only me! I, Emperor Davith, do ask of you this boon, damned being, Dark force, unholy wretch, and offer unto you the only chip I have left… My eternal soul." With a final yell, he plunges the dagger into the middle of the mark carved onto his arm. Finally, he gasps; the knife continues onwards through his flesh and down, and he falls through the dead wood of his throne, leaving a tracer of shadow behind him. His body has become insubstantial, a smoky outline that escapes direct notice but leaves an afterimage, like a bad taste in one's mouth. The whirlpool starts to churn violently, and the men nearby mutter, then scream as tendrils of the thick red fluid lash out and grasp them, dragging inexorably. All but Taddro, who stands, impassive, the panicked death throes of Davith's generals and acolytes fading, to be replaced by a terrible, booming laughter, a roar of death and blood in a wave that fills his entire camp.

"What have you done to me!? This was not our pact!" The hungry mouth of the beast lifts from the floor and trailing behind the corpses of his men, strung together in a grotesque form that binds together the being's presence, anchoring it to this world. It forms a great hunched beast, with muscles of blood and thick clotted life forming skin.

 _You asked me for riches and power… They are yours, a pauper's riches, a shadow's power. You asked to live as long as Runeterra exists, and you will, as long as Light shines on this world. You asked for the destruction of Rikmar, and, trust me with this little… It would be my honour, my Highness!_ The voice echoes and then breaks into voracious, blood chilling screaming, and the rippling creature of blood sweeps away.

It gets a dozen metres before the laughter reaches it, followed quickly by the tidal wave of Darkness, all consuming.

* * *

Syndra's plan starts well. Davith's men are roused from tents and campfire by the chilling laughter, then swept up in her power, carried along like so many pins in a fairground. Only the men are picked up, the tents and loose items dissolving in the sheer, overwhelming corruption borne forth on the Darkness. The great form of blood ignores this entirely, as does the vaporous form of Davith, which unlike the being, goes unnoticed by Syndra. The red blotch on the terrain below is momentarily swamped, but stands still after it passes, grown by the men pressed into it and adding to its form. Davith's army is deposited like silt just after the narrow channel of the valley, the choke in an hourglass that ends in death, but with men and not sand. Rikmar's forces quickly march from the forest, spectres dressed in shining mail and plate. All at once, a great series of rocky spires erupt from the ground, entirely ignoring the spirit. The columns lock Davith's army from retreat, a solid wall of commitment and, ultimately, doom. Rikmar's men, they do not baulk as the creature bears down on them, closer and closer, following orders unto their end. Syndra sees this all, but is trying her best to keep the roiling force of Darkness suppressed, cutting its ties before it continues onto Rikmar's men, and is only just successful. The strain keeps her from responding to the Devourer before it starts to ravage the ranks of soldiers arrayed at the mouth of the valley. She starts to move, slowly, too slowly, the beast growing with every death and broken corpse, when a great, blinding, burning lance of purest Light arcs forth from the hill where Rikmar and his commanders stand. At first, she assumes it is Narrla, who has a passable mastery of all the elements and pillars of magic, but she quickly realizes the beam, which begins to carve globules of sustaining blood from the creature, is two sources pressed together. A throbbing aches in her heart, echoed pressure from…

Lux, who stands atop the hill, crumpling under the strain of such a reckless and destructive display of power.

Syndra knows that, though the Light will banish the being, Lux - and perhaps Narrla - will evaporate under the flow of magic, like a stone in a river bed will erode over centuries. She cannot help from here, not after what she'd just done, but that strand, that long spindle of chain that connects them, calls to her. Delving inside of her own mind, the star that illuminates the Dark sea beneath her wanes, falters, wavering like a flame in the wind. With a scream - a reverberating shout of pain and hope, love and fear - she streams raw, undiluted power into their connection. The sky splits above her, and iridescent ribbons of magic flow down into the star. The Dark ocean beneath starts to boil, rising into the air to burrow through this one chink in Lux's defences, but Syndra doubles down with sheer will, her screams rising from a tortured throat, and the roiling mass below calms, the streamers of power doubling and then tripling in size and speed.

* * *

Vaunt, Captain of the Ninth Rangers, stands on a shelf of rock that was carved by time into the side of the valley. His men - a few dozen, the rest picking off stragglers - unload volleys of blistering fire into the backs of Davith's forces. He would have ordered fire on the great beast that is slaughtering his brothers-in-arms but has enough understanding of the arcane to know that it would be futile. He picks out a man shouting orders below and is about to single him out to his second, a brilliant marksman, when a shadow passes over him. He looks up and sees a dainty form, swamped in purple Darkness, writhing like she's burning from the inside. Her mouth is open in a rictus of agony but the time for screams has passed. He recognizes her from the rumours, though she isn't nearly as demonic as his men would suggest around the campfire. As he watches, the lance of light assailing the beast suddenly explodes in power, and his Queen's form snaps taught, muscles rigid, and she finally screams as the monster breaks apart under the magic assaulting it. She drops a few metres, halts, falls, seizes, and plummets to the ground far, far below. For a moment, he stares, unsure if it is a trick of the sun that shines just behind her, but he swears she is… Glowing... With an inner light.

Immediately, he grabs his second and starts to scream orders. A half-dozen men rush out with a blanket strung between them, sliding down the hill with reckless abandon. Syndra lands in it, then hits the floor with a bone-crunching impact. Ignoring his second's panicked words, he follows his men down the scree and dirt that covers the valley's side. Sliding to a halt beside the crumpled form of his monarch, sending up a cloud of dust, he is just in time to see his eyes were not deceiving him. She is shining from within with a bright, pure Light, that makes his eyes hurt to see it. One of her arms is twisted at a sickening angle, the bone poking through near her elbow. His men are not rattled, having seen far more gruesome things through their scopes. Waving them away, he goes to sit her up, maybe bandage her arm, when she groans and rolls over. Her bone snaps back together like it was never injured, the blood bubbling in Light. When she stands, she floats up above the ground by a few feet, imperiously hovering. He falls to his knees unconsciously, as do his men.

"What are you called, that I may reward you and your men for saving me? It is a debt I am sorry I will likely never be able to repay." He dares not raise his head to her divine majesty, but his words are strong as always.

"I am Captain Vaunt, my Queen, and these are my Ninth Rangers. We… Only serve you, humble, for that is our duty to our Queen and Goddess." She grunts, and then he feels a pressure on his chest, pulling him. He and his men are yanked to their feet, their eyes lifted to gaze upon the deity shackled in flesh.

"I am no Goddess, forget that not. Come to Rikmar's tent after Davith has been defeated, and I will show you a proper thanks." He nods, unable to respond as she floats away once more, towards the raging battle. He scrambles up the slope, his second helping him over the lip of their position. When asked what happened, he replies with awe in his voice.

"Our God-Queen has blessed us, fallen from the sun, having taken its Light. She will drive away the evil that plagues this land, and we will help her! Fire! Kill the evil Davith, and destroy his army!"

* * *

For the soldiers below, who have no view of Syndra and who are primarily concerned with the raging melee with Davith's forces and the blood-being, see only the arcing beam of light smite the foul creature. They cheer the name Lux, for surely it is she, beloved ward of Rikmar and Mydaltt, that has destroyed the unholy outsider and saved them from certain doom! Their cheering crescendos into a rictus of triumph as the earthen wall trapping Davith's men disappears in a plume of steam; replaced by all-consuming magma. The opposing army fights like a cornered rat, trapped between the roiling lava and Rikmar's men, who have orders to accept surrender from any who put down their weapon, or indeed, have no weapon to begin with.

As such only half of the army - the half that willingly served the evil Emperor, who raped and pillaged happily in his name - were slaughtered to a man, whilst the farmers, wanderers, and mercenaries who had lives beyond banditry were spared, lest this year's harvest suffer, since Rikmar knew he couldn't let anything bad happen early in his new reign, or there would be unrest. When all was said and done, Rikmar ordered his men pulled back, dragging their dead comrades with them and leaving the bodies of Davith's men in the mud. Davith's body was found, slumped over his throne, dead from no wounds they could find. The scouts did not see the shadowed form peering from the floor, just the top of his face visible, the rest of his body slipping through the dirt as easily as air.

After a few hours to rest, throatcutters and scavengers were let loose. They killed those few who had not bled out and tore the camp apart for supplies that Syndra hadn't destroyed in her rampage; there wasn't much. It took almost no time for the rumours to circulate; Syndra had accidentally summoned the beast and Lux had been forced to destroy it, the monster had been Davith's soul bloated by death and sacrifice, and the one that held a kernel of truth; Syndra was the one to destroy the creature, the God-Queen, and that she would expand her kingdom to spread her benevolence as far as she could. There was one thing for certain, amongst it all, the celebrations and grief and planning.

She and Lux had some talking to do.

* * *

After the battle, Syndra avoided returning to the victorious army, and the command tent. Leaving her shadow behind to watch the tent - she would keep her word if Vaunt showed up - she could feel worry and happiness seeping from her bonds with Mordreth and Lux, but couldn't bring herself to greet them. Instead, she fled to the great tree she had slept under previously. It had grown even more; spiralling upwards beyond belief, towering like a giant several times over its surroundings. Standing under it provided total shade, such was the volume of its personal canopy, but the sunset provided a purple hue to the world around her. It sobered her that her own purple light held nothing to this natural beauty, an unnatural curse. She let the self-loathing wash over her for a time, not long enough.

Then, with the rustle of ethereal leaves, peering into the spirit world like a curious little girl, she saw the ninja again.

She had heard the tales of the balance keepers, the Kinkou, great and powerful warriors who mediated the forces of the spirit world and the human realm, magic and soul and flesh and blood. She didn't really believe them until now, looking upon this man before her. The purple light of the sunset was, in this world, entirely drowned beneath their auras. His was pure, clear, piercing, unbiased. Hers was… Writhing. He bows at the waist, sharp and slow, and she returns the favour. Gently coming down to the floor, she momentarily falls to one knee and dips her head, almost brushing the leaves littering the ground, and then ascends to her rightful place, free of gravity's pull.

The man regards her for a moment - eyes sharp, darting - and speaks, voice sounding like it is coming from underwater.

 _The balance must be maintained. You know not of the balance, but I can still ask you for assistance in my endeavours. I need your help to eliminate a threat to both worlds. The temple I showed you previously; there is a strange presence. It is powerful, but I do not recognise it. We will need your help to raze it to the ground._

Message delivered, he stands completely still, like a statue, and awaits a response. Syndra truly considers it; she relishes not only the opportunity to work beside a legend - though she would never admit it - but to find a challenge, a threat, not to mention another practitioner of Dark magic, to weight herself against. She drifts back down to the floor, lying gently with her back propped against the great trunk of the arboreal colossus, and sighs, waiting for a few moments before responding.

"I will help you, strange man, but only if you promise not to get in my way. Meet me here, tomorrow, we will complete this task, and leave on good terms."

The purple figure shows no indication of having heard her, so she slumps and rests her head, weary after a long day, still drained from the display of power she had exerted herself totally for. After an indeterminable time, her peaceful reverie is broken by his voice once again. It sounds almost sad, a little angry, and this shocks her; the Kinkou Order are supposed to be entirely neutral and expressionless, that they may carry out their duties without bias or prejudice.

 _We agree. Tomorrow, when the sun hides its gaze from the world, meet us here once again. May the balance prevail._

Syndra lets her sight slip back into the physical world in time to see two dark figures bound away, disturbing barely a branch or leaf in their flight. Sighing once again, she lifts to her feet and floats in the direction of Rikmar's camp. She wishes to see the world, to remind her that it is not all death, and Dark, so that she can remind herself she is not like them, the Shadow Order. She is... If not good, trying to be. And besides, there is an aching in her soul, an emptiness to be filled only by Light.

She has spent too long away from Lux.

* * *

On the way there, her shadow alerts her to the presence of Vaunt; she tells her twin to command those stopping him to let him through, a long time before she gets there; they are no less afraid of her shadow than her, which makes the part of her that longs for love twinge. When she does arrive some time later, the guards - slightly drunk, despite Rikmar's best attempts - startle when she lands outside the tent. Their spears twitch, but manage to avoid piercing their Queen. She steps through the canvas flaps, and on the other side is a startling scene. The commanders, Mordreth and Allia included, are seated around a large, round table, the map replaced by countless platters of food and great jugs of drink. Captain Vaunt sits beside Lady Allia, eyes wide, plate overfull and barely diminished by his efforts. The plate itself is a thick, fluffy bread, baked flat and circular. You tear off chunks and eat it with the meal as you go. Syndra is familiar with it, even if she was used to eating off of Western-style ceramic; not that she had to eat anymore. Conversation grinds to a morbid halt as she enters and slowly floats over to the one empty seat. It is between Lux - Syndra's heart stops for a moment as she notices the literally radiant woman - and Mordreth. She pulls out the chair and sits, hovering an inch above the wood. Everyone is staring or trying their best not to, and the silence is broken only as Bron gurgles and spits out a red paste, shattering the reverie.

"Milady, please, take my food. I have eaten my fill anyway." Mordreth slides - as much as one can slide a loaf of bread soaked in meat juices, which she has to admit looks severely tempting - his plate over, the food piled atop wobbling dangerously. She smiles, but uses her magic to push it back across, leaving a trail of something delicious smelling. Every moment that passes saps her willpower. She hasn't eaten food in a long time... Can she even remember the last meal?

"Thank you, my knight, but I do not eat. I am sustained by will alone." She used to think that all mages could survive without food, and whilst natural magical talent helps to sustain oneself for long periods of time without nourishment, Syndra is the only one who she knows of that can forgo it entirely. Lux, judging by the way she is happily devouring stacks of grilled delight, is quite at ease eating with or without the aid of magic. Syndra smiles, unable to stop herself, when she notices that there is still one man staring at her. Vaunt is looking at her with a rapturous expression, his hands clasped in front of him in a strange way, a half-eaten meal in front of him. Lux is, whilst not ignoring her, paying close attention to her meal. Syndra doesn't mind; she isn't much to look at.

"My Captain, what are you looking at?" Rikmar's voice reaches across and attracts her attention, and Vaunt's. He turns, startled, and attempts to bow, narrowly missing the teetering pile of food stacked in front of him. Lux giggles, and snags a choice piece of meat, moaning very slightly as she chews reverently. The sound makes a shiver cascade down Syndra's spine.

"I am admiring our God-Queen, my Lord. Thinking of our future together, the future of her kingdom, the future of the people. It… Overwhelms me sometimes. Her radiance inspires so much in me, and I wish only to do all I can." Rikmar nods, and Mordreth raises a glass that is apparently full of bubbling liquid. It doesn't appear to be boiling, so she assumes it must be some kind of magic. Everyone else around the table raises their various drinks, and she quickly realises she doesn't have one. Fashioning a thin, fluted goblet out of pure Dark essence, she raises it too. Vaunt stares at it, his mouth hanging open just a little. Mordreth and Lux turn to smile at her. She suppresses a blush. Her knight begins speaking.

"A toast. For our Queen and her continued health, her kingdom and its expansion, the people and our freedom!" The tent starts to echo with the sounds of glass clinking. Those nearby hit hers with their own. The note it produces is a piercing, sonorous ring. It hurts her ears a little. When they sit back down, Bron gurgles and whimpers a tune, and Allia stands up, excusing herself.

"Vaunt, please escort our Lady Allia to her tent, and join Pan in guarding her." The Captain stands, steel in his eyes. He salutes , then takes Allia away. A few more of Rikmar's higher ups take the opportunity to leave as well, leaving only his closest allies. There is a moment of silence in which the sound of cutlery has died down, leaving no competition for the only interesting thing in the room, Syndra. Mordreth finishes the last gulp of his drink and turns to her. His face is flushed and wearing an irrepressible smile, positioned like a man just as drunk had pinned it there.

"Milady, that was a truly impressive feat of strength! I have never heard of such a powerful mage, save perhaps the Ancients of the past! And if not for you, Narrla, we would have been consumed by that blood-beast! With Davith defeated, an amazing victory by all accounts, our plans have fruited, and thank the gods for it! Cheers!" He goes to take a drink from the glass, but realizes it is empty. Lux leans across Syndra to pass hers, which is almost full. He murmurs thanks as that becomes almost empty. Then, softly, Lux whispers, the first words she has spoken since Syndra's entrance.

"Syndra was the one who destroyed the demon." The hushed conversation that had struck up vanishes like mist in the noon sun, leaving bare the words that broke it. Narrla, furthest from Syndra, opens her mouth to speak but instead nods. Her hands are shaking, brow furrowed, eyes darting. She looks more nervous than Lem.

"And it was a demon, not just a normal spirit. An embodiment of the Shadow Isles, drawn forth." Lux's voice is steadier this time. Rikmar and Mydaltt, just a seat away, both fix Syndra with a serious look, not dulled by the wine. She cannot discern its intent.

"If all of these things are true, we owe a debt beyond payment. You have helped to destroy our strongest foe and saved the lives of many. Though you came to us in odd circumstances, you have proven your effectiveness, if not your trustworthiness. I am glad, for now with Davith dead, the majority of Ionia is safe. But we must know, my Queen, for we worry. What are your plans for the future?" Rikmar's voice is grave and unwavering, but soft. Subtly, Lux turns to glance at Syndra. She is interested as well. The monarch leans back, arms crossed, head tilted. All of these things cannot draw an answer from her mind, which is indecisive. After a few seconds, her answer is born; Lux stretches herself over the arm of her chair, across the space between them, and presses her lips to Syndra's cheek. A loud gasp bursts from those present and Mydaltt's face drains of colour. Rikmar smiles, his gaze fixed on Lux, a gleam in his eye.

"We will rule, and should threats arise, we will demolish them as we did Davith. Our kingdom will expand, and by our will, the Dark will know fear." Lux says this still staring at Syndra, who is having trouble breathing or thinking. But she knows one thing, and with no conscious thought, kisses the woman she loves. It is small and short but serves the purpose of stopping Syndra's heart. Inside, she can feel the magic coiling, ready to strike, and as she goes to bear down on it Lux smiles and the star inside of her heart glows blinding, the ocean beneath tamed in the face of Light's purity.

Everyone else is utterly stunned, yet Syndra finds that she doesn't care one wit. Before, this uncaring apathy was born of arrogance and superiority. But now, she knows that no matter what, nothing will stop her love. The two simply gaze at each other like a pair of teenagers, giddy, and then before anyone can react, Syndra grasps the two in the clutch of Darkness and whisks them away to her castle, where prying eyes are thankfully absent.


	7. The Dark Destroys

AN:

Sorry for the hiatus! Uni is very busy, as it turns out. It slipped my mind to continue my efforts - but finally, the long awaited lemon, and a few more allies.

PS: Sorry for those that saw the chapter that was uploaded for about a minute... I forgot some changes I needed to make :P

* * *

Her castle seems to pulse to the beat of their hearts; synchronised life, obvious and subtle. The doors stand open, the windows wide and un-shuttered. Though shadows lurk in every corner and behind every object, light pervades the stone. A harmonic balance so normal… Just not to Syndra, who marvels at the sight. Lux giggles and skips and drags the sovereign behind her like a kite. Occasionally they cannot resist, pecking the other's cheek or lips or neck, and then the chase starts again. When they end up outside Syndra's room, there is no hesitation, no words. They can read each other like books, and the time for affirmations and questions and doubts is far gone. Syndra suffers no embarrassment being naked, and her clothes evaporate like mist in the morning sun, leaving behind pale skin and purple eyes. Lux - and her clothes - prove more of an obstacle, but still much less than would be required to stop them. Her skin, whilst equally lacking in a tan, is more healthy looking. It glows, whereas Syndra's is sickly and white, like chalk. The Sovereign's flesh drinks in the glow, creating a strange, anti-luminescence. Lux is blushing heavily, but for once, Syndra is not. Her heart is still; her mind placid; her soul peaceful. She knows this is what she wants - they want - and that simple knowledge calms her entire being.

She has spent her life being a burden; abandoned, taken in, exiled, vilified. She realizes that at last she has found what she wants; acceptance for who she is. For _what_ she is; imperfect… Dangerous… Troubled. At times, perhaps even evil, in every sense of the word. One pale, elegant hand cups Lux's cheek. The other wraps around her waist, pulls her close. She is warm, and soft, and smaller in every sense. Her subject speaks; voice gentle, subdued, overawed.

"I… I-I've never done this before…" Syndra leans forward and kisses her fiercely, the most aggressive thing they've done so far. Lux is suddenly finding it hard to breath, and her stomach feels tight, her legs weak. Syndra is strong, as strong as ever, stronger, and she is the first to spear her tongue forwards, demanding entry to Lux's mouth. The Light mage's mind is slowly clouding over; she acquiesces in a daze, and her moan as their tongues meet and curl and explore finally elicits a reaction from Syndra; the second hand that was previously pressed to her hip tightens possessively, and pulls her close.

They clash again; Syndra's will and strength overwhelm Lux completely, and she is left on the back foot; panting, legs trembling, thoughts jumbled. Syndra moves the hand from Lux's head - having perfectly captured her with her lips alone - and moves it down her body. The nails scrapes down her collarbone, Lux's moan awakening something inside of her lover, and palms a small, conical breast. Lux gasps as her nipple sparks against Syndra's hand, who breaks the kiss to stare into her eyes, to draw her into those purple pools.

 **"Neither have I."** Her voice splits and grows, echoing around them, practically alive in its own right. It caresses Lux, surrounds her, and what would be sinister and menacing to others is lustful and inviting to her. She can feel wetness seeping from her core, the culmination of Syndra's efforts and her own, and her hands start to travel over the pale woman. They are hesitant and indecisive, skating over the curve of her ass or shoulders or breasts, but her movements stutter from insubstantial to still when a single slender finger slowly sinks into her pussy.

Lux can barely react. Her mind is starting to peel away in layers at the stimulation, but manages to catch up enough for her to moan out her lover's name as the finger draws back out, teasing, and then repeats the movement; faster, faster, until she is chanting ' _Syndra, Syndra, oh, Syndra, faster, please, oh-'_ and it strikes upon her in a sudden moment; Syndra is pistoning two fingers in and out of her cunt, driving her to the edge, stealing kisses and twisting her nipple, but her voice spells the end.

 **"You have done so much for me… Let me help you, Lux. Show me your Light…"** Lux's reply is made of screams and moans and whispered admissions of love, the Light shedding from her blazing in its intensity, and Syndra drinks it all in. Lux collapses and Syndra steps back, the shadows bearing her to the floor, where she lies, half-conscious. Lux's essence tastes suitably sweet. She examines Lux for a moment; she feels empowered, having brought her such pleasure. Reducing her to such a state. A smile blossoms on her face and shadows flock, lifting her from the floor and gently placing her on the bed.

A minute passes before she stirs, eyes blinking. Syndra is sitting at her feet; her eyes are burning with Dark, the room shadowed and flickering with her power. Lux giggles, slurring in the aftershock of her climax, and kisses her again; Syndra is growling now, and Lux starts to trace circles on her back and sides and breasts, twirling teasingly closer to her nipples. One of Syndra's hands darts down to Lux's sex and begins stroking it, daring, and Lux rises to the bait; one hand lunges and pinches a soft nub between her fingers, immediately twisting, pulling. The other wastes no time sliding into Syndra's slick tunnel.

The Dark woman gasps, composure slipping as the pleasure erodes her sanity, but not enough to stop her; she abandons teasing and starts rubbing at Lux's clit, trying her best to send her over the edge, to beat her. But Lux is just as stubborn, two fingers joining the first; Syndra's movements monetarily falter as she gasps, the digits stretching in a deliciously _painful_ way. She is finished when her lover makes a daring move; her fingers grasp a nipple and twist and stretch, the other hand pinching her throbbing clit in her nails, and immediately Syndra is drowned in ecstasy. The pain feeds her, the pleasure twisting and combining to drive her over the edge. Around her, a dozen orbs wink into existence, destroying a chunk of wall and ruining the carpet.

But her hand is not so defeated easily. It doubles down on its efforts, flying, blurred, and instinctually she drips a sliver of Dark energy through her fingers; it sparks against Lux's clit, and again, and she explodes into Light once more, the two writhing in passion together, tongues dancing as it overcomes them, and then collapse onto the bed. Their chests heave, their limbs twitch, and their faces smile at each other, the star in their souls shining oh so brightly. The covers shift of their own accord, pulling up their chests, and the two embrace as the Dark temporarily wins over the Light and night falls.

* * *

The next morning, Syndra experiences something for the first time; to any normal person this would be a severely irritating and disruptive experience, but to her, is a sign of not only her personal growth, but of her budding relationship with Lux, and the effects, metaphorical and literal, it is having on her life.

Sunlight is streaming in through her window and piercing into her eyes.

At first, she doesn't realise. Her body slowly drifts into awareness, warm and comfortable and hugging something softly squishy. She nuzzles her head deeper unconsciously, and then a blinding, infinitely painful stabbing sensation attacks her eyes. Reflexively, her magic cocoons her, a layer of Dark springing up around her, glowing purple. The feeling stops, but the pain has kickstarted her brain a little and she opens her eyes. She's staring out the window; her head is resting in the crook of Lux's neck. The woman underneath her shifts and mumbles and hugs her closer, like a toy. She wants to feel annoyed, but can't. After a moment of confused staring, she lets her magic fade. The light attacks her again, but she drinks the sensation in. After a few moments, Lux wakes up. She looks concerned, but sleepy, and fixes Syndra with a soft smile. Her hand brushes stark white hair over an ear.

"Why are you crying, love?" Her voice is tender. Syndra's tears - which she only realises she now has - run with increasing intensity. She tries to voice her thoughts; the window, waking up in her arms, her smile - but it comes out in a series of babbles and sniffles. Lux kisses her forehead and pulls her close, hugging her tightly. Syndra doesn't really know when she stops crying, but when she does she feels glad. Not least because she sounded like a damn fool, but… Something in her feels better, now that her feelings are disclosed. There's no need to hide, to conceal herself. She can't think why she would ever have wanted to; besides, some emotion leaks through their connection, anyway, so it would be relatively useless.

Lux strokes her hair and hums some sort of lullaby, and Syndra feels like a child, but for a moment she forgets and is content.

The Sun moves on, leaving the room lit only by Lux. Syndra smiles again, and sits up, her hands suddenly held captive in Lux's own. They kiss, lightly, tentatively, exploring a new world. They end it staring into each other's eyes and there is a moment of connection, the star in their souls singing their love. Then Lux giggles, and though Syndra will not do so herself, she does smile warmly.

They lie there for a minute; hesitantly ogling each other, stealing kisses, unsure not of the other's reaction, but of how the world around them will react to their relationship. Syndra is still a practitioner of Dark magic, not to mention very obviously a mage. If she was to ever meet Lux's family, how would they react? Indeed, she imagines entering Demacia at all would be a severe challenge, without resorting to wholesale slaughter. She imagines that won't go down so well.

"Lux… What will your family think? Of me? Of us?" Her voice is strong, and does not waver. She is not scared of the answer. The Light mage takes a moment to consider, and her reply is much quieter, unsure, almost unwilling to voice the panful words, for fear they might come true.

"In private? Perhaps they will veil their practiced fear and hatred enough to support us. Garen will not take it lightly. I fear he has intentionally forgotten his own memories of us as children, when I could not hide my gifts, lest he consider me an abomination. Mother has always tried, in her own twisted way." Syndra is silent, until the small woman continues.

"I know you have no parents, not truly. No one you have spent your life with. Perhaps my family will love you. I hope they do." A moment of sombre silence passes, Syndra tracing her hand up and down Lux's arm. "Galio will love you, I think." They smile, Lux giggling, their memories confirming that fact.

"For now, however, I will just have to be enough, won't I?"

They explore the castle. It is, to Syndra, a whole new place. It is barely recognizable. After weeks without Sensei's influence, it had been overrun with Dark corruption. Now, light streamed through newly opened windows, birdsong filtered through the stone. She found herself before the open door; a great oaken barrier to the world outside. She reached out a hand; her magic slowly pressed against them, and they swung gently. Her mind brought up her past experience with this door; a cloud of dust and splinters and broken tree. She smiles. Sunlight fills the hall, stopping before her feet. Lux steps up next to her; her hand skates from Syndra's back along her arm and grabs at her hand, continuing her steps into the light that splashes before them. She smiles and tugs and Syndra follows, out the door and into the day.

* * *

The clearing is empty when they arrive. She had an enlightening conversation with Rikmar; apparently Queens hold court and listen to the troubles of the common folk. Whilst she imagines most monarchs do not appreciate such a duty, she looks forward to the task. Her one wish is for people to see her, and understand her. Starting tomorrow, of course; she has a promise to uphold. Rikmar also explains that most Queens have a steward or major-domo to look after affairs whilst they are indisposed. She isn't sure if he's manipulating her, but considering she has the power to turn his body to ash in moments, it doesn't concern her too much.

The great tree has grown. It has gone from unbelievably large to impossibly so; it stretches out, beyond vision. In its bows and branches and knotted holes lie countless birds, monkeys, flowers, snakes… The verdant, overgrown life spilling from every crevice inspires Syndra. Perhaps she _can_ do good in the world, to have made this cornucopia of rampant growth. Lux twirls in a ray of sunlight, a rainbow glittering along her shoulders, giggling like a child. Syndra watches her for a minute before her reverie is broken but a familiar, droning voice.

"Lady Syndra. The time has come. Can we count on your aid in our endeavour?"

This time, he stands in the real world. He is half concealed by shadow, his legs and eyes the only visible parts… Apart from a large, floating sword, perhaps the size of a person in its own right. To her sight, it is clearly bonded intimately to him, as she and Lux are. The other two Kinkou are visually absent, but their life cannot hide from the Dark that intends to snuff it out. Lux is staring at her; she realizes that of course she hasn't met the man before.

"Syndra, who is this…? Is this why were came here?" The man seems to notice her for the first time, though that is obviously impossible; or at least she hopes so, or their legends are wildly exaggerated. Though, considering Lux's previous occupation, she imagines that it might be harder than first expected.

"Yes, Lady of Luminosity. We have requested your Empress's aid in the destruction of a threat to both worlds. The Shadow Order have erected a temple nearby, and it spreads corruption as we speak." He does not turn to look at Lux as he speaks, like a blind man, having forgotten the habit.

Syndra sees something out the corner of her eye; a flash of colour, gold, and a rustle of leaves, followed swiftly by a dark purple. Her second sight reveals two souls, glowing so brightly as to hurt her eyes, and once again, linked intrinsically. However, they are not the Kinkou… _Their_ souls - the ninjas, that is - stand beside the strange man, hidden, still as death, dark as shadow. It is a fitting comparison, considering their opponents, and indeed, their allies.

"So what is your name? And your two friends?" Lux's voice is undeterred by the man's stilting speech.

"I am Shen. The Eye of Twilight." He says it like it means something. Lux reacts with minor shock, and a little awe. Syndra rolls her eyes at his dramatic delivery. Despite his apparent willingness to show his presence, his companions do not feel the need to imitate him. The two other Kinkou remain hidden in the foliage, and indeed, they back away further, to ensure their anonymity. Shen does not react, unsurprisingly. Lux shrugs. The two mysterious, magic-soaked figures approach, appearing out of nowhere; their cloaks blended perfectly to the leaves. One is female, and the other male, and both are carrying a bleeding corpse. Shen, without turning, addresses them.

"And who are you, Vastayan friends?" A thump as one of the bodies falls; it splatters and rolls a few feet, immediately punctured by a dozen purplish... Feathers?

"No friend of yours, traitors to the Lhotlan!" The figure, hawk-like and vicious, retorts with anger. She is crouched low, ready for a fight. Her companion is, whilst much more proud and impressive looking, far less deadly, at least in Syndra's eyes. He glances around the clearing like a child, eyes flitting, occasionally glancing into a hand mirror and smoothing an imagined errant feather. Despite his utter lack of concentration, his shining adoration for the other Vastaya is as clear as a sunrise, and just as blinding.

"Move from this land, or face our might, Shadow Fool!" This remark is directed at Syndra; the Vastayan's cloak twists up into an aggressive stance, now clearly a wing. It takes the Dark Sovereign a moment to realize this is directed at her, and frowns, snorting. Lux steps slightly closer, eyes hard. She lifts a hand, Light pouring like silk from her fingers. Rainbows dance across her knuckles, her eyes ablaze, hair glowing. This is the first time Syndra's seen her angry. She likes it.

"She is no Shadow Acolyte! We are here to destroy the Shadow Temple!" Shen shifts slightly to behold Lux in her glory. The female Vastaya backs away, hissing; her companion darts forwards a few steps, awed, zealous. The corpse he was carrying falls before him, obviously a Shadow Acolyte, head twisted all the way round to face over his shoulder. The Vastayan's cloak - wing - shimmers and ripples into a pure gold. The Light fades, leaving an angry-looking Lux behind. Syndra is tempted to take her back to the castle.

"Indeed, Xayah. We are gathered to assault the nearby Temple; Zed himself resides there. We will need all the allies we can find." Syndra glances sharply at the Kinkou leader; he already knew her name. What else does he know that Syndra doesn't...? The Lhotlan replies with an indignant snort, but the feathers she was brandishing melt into dust, vanishing. The purple glow they emit is similar to Syndra's own, but... More natural. It holds no connection to the Void.

"Rakan! Focus!" The blond Vastaya flits in a golden blur back to his love's side, for a long few seconds entirely captured by her, attention drawn, hand in hers.

"It seems the rumours are true." Shen's voice might be crippling if it wasn't so monotone. The show of magic serves its purpose; Xayah doesn't appear quite so murderous. Though that isn't saying much. The two Lhotlan clearly kept each other in check; she is driven and vengeful where he is flitting and optimistic. Their relationship is startlingly similar to her own; she glances over at Lux, who smiles and nods.

"I am not in league with the Shadow Order." Her voice is stronger than she would have imagined. Her mind is in relative turmoil, but outwardly she show no signs of this. Rakan speaks up, voice painfully jovial and sweet. Perhaps it is meant to sombre, quiet, and respectful, but his vocal cords are not built for such considerations as volume.

"Xayah, perhaps they are not so bad! Remember what the consul said? His face looked like that thing!" He points up at the trees. Everyone - bar Shen - turns to look. It is a monkey of some kind. Lux giggles. Xayah stands tall and straight, clearly too stubborn to vocalize her agreement. She and Rakan have a short conversation in their own language, with lots of hissing and extravagant gestures. Syndra turns slightly to Lux and raises an eyebrow; Lux just shrugs.

Shen's voice spears into the conversation; Syndra had forgotten he was here. He _is_ very sneaky.

"Look around you. Omikayalan has reborn, at the hands of this Dark mage. The Green Father himself could not achieve such a feat. Though the World-Tree remains absent, his grove has flourished at her touch. Have your tribes not strived for centuries to achieve this?" The meaning is lost entirely on Syndra, but it seems to touch the Vastaya. Rakan takes a step back, visibly on the verge of tears. Xayah places a hand on his shoulder. A squirrel scampers across the ground between them, clutching an acorn that shines gold.

"He speaks sense. We are gathered here to destroy the Shadow Order temple nearby. Join us. You seem…" She trails off, glancing at Rakan, who is grinning inanely at himself in the mirror. "Like good fighters." Lux comes over and grabs Syndra's hand, her smile beaming. The Dark mage cannot help but mirror it. It is a far cuter smile than Rakan's, she decides. She wonders what Xayah would look like if she smiled. Probably menacing and angry, like all other facial expressions she possesses.

"The Shadow Order is expanding. Becoming more powerful. You will need help to eliminate them. And Zed… Will not be ruined so easily." Shen interjects once more. He is like a hovering statue of good advice and brooding dressed in purple cloth. Xayah's face swings from person to person. Rakan grasps a hand in his, smiling at her, echoing the pair of mages. Syndra isn't sure how to feel about the comparison, considering she would definitely be the Xayah of their relationship. Rakan hums a little song and nods encouragingly to Xayah, who turns to Shen and speaks, albeit with obvious reluctance.

"Fine. Ouulavaash." She spins and walks off without another word. Rakan waves at Lux, who giggles and waves back, and dives after her. They are lost to the trees in seconds. Syndra checks her nails, bored, and then speaks into the air.

"Onwards, then. To the temple." She needs no directions; the corruption seeping out of it is like a beacon, calling to her. Its song is sweet, but compared to the pyre of Lux, it is a measly spark. She casts its influence off and rises into the air imperiously. Her eyes narrow, her mouth sets into a grim line.

A part of her looks forward to the killing; letting her magic loose, run rampant without restrictions.

She isn't sure what to feel; the lust for killing is surely outweighed by the good it brings, in this case?

Lux turns to her; something flickers over her face, indecipherable, alien, and above all, terrifying.

 _"It's ok to_ want _to kill. What isn't right is following those instincts. You do what you must, and no more."_

Syndra stares at her; Lux's voice is strangely grave. She nods, and kisses her, and keeps going.

* * *

The Kinkou - so enigmatic, so mysterious, so downright silly - vanish within seconds. At first, Syndra had wanted to keep them in her sights; but they move quicker than belief, and Shen, the slowest, flits between worlds to compensate. Lux and Syndra trudge - or at least Lux does, as Syndra's feet never grace the earth - after them, falling behind with every step. They do not speak, though their hands cannot seem to abandon the other. But they never lose their goal; the Darkness.

They first see their enemies slumped on the floor. Some are dead, some are unconscious. It is hard to discern the cause, but it isn't hard to imagine a few purplish feathers or glinting blades. The bodies become more and more common as the taint grows; Lux gets paler, her breathing shallower. Syndra… The symbiosis scares her. The Dark corruption makes the air sweet and thick and _addictive._ Her form glows, wreathed in purple energy, her eyes shining. They come across a man who apparently managed to slip by unharmed. He is sitting still; surrounding him are what used to be his friends and allies.

He can hear their footsteps approaching, but isn't listening. His mind does not respond in any way. His sword lies beside him, knees pressed into the cold dirt. His head hangs, tears dripping, weak. A Light approaches from behind; it stops momentarily to judge his soul as life abandons him, and then continues, finding his soul wanting. Another form approaches, this one Dark, black and deep and kindred to his twisted fate. With the last of his waning strength, he reaches out to this spirit of death, revealing the bloody gash across his gut. He smiles as she takes his hand, her face - regal, pained, so _bright_ \- coming into focus. He closes his eyes and surrenders his soul freely, for he is done on this plane. He tried to wreak his vengeance, and all that gave him was this pitiful end as death drank his soul. Her touch is like exquisite fire, consuming, unstoppable. He can feel his life torn from his body, and then he realizes that the Light had never abandoned him; instead, it hides here, where it can live without fear. It grasps him and he gives unto it his all, this salvation hidden in the shadow of the Dark.

He knows he cannot move on, yet. He must give his due to the Dark that had delivered him to Light.

His soul shimmers and he gasps as a semblance of life returns; the world is drenched in purple.

All around him, death chokes the material world. Tears come to his ethereal eyes as he _sees..._

Is this what he had been doing, in the shadow temple? Spreading this... Blight? Death itself? No more.

"My Dark Lady!" The Light returns, now free to show herself. She smiles and it hurts it is so pure and bright, a banishing radiance driving back the corruption. His form wavers under her luminescence, then is reformed by his Dark Lady. He falls to his knee, finally seeing his form. A strange, wavering shimmer of rainbow, like a sheen of oil. The dark spirit glances between the two, then comes to stand before him, imperious. She gestures for him to speak. "Mistress, I swear myself to your will. Please, my work on this world is not complete... I must seek penance for the ruin I have spread!" He can _feel_ her power, grasping him, and he smiles. Thoughts - not words, per say, but a rough concept - spear into his mind. Nodding seriously, he bows and vanishes from the material world.

Lux continues to walk, her step lighter, her load lessened. Syndra takes a moment, then floats away.

* * *

They hear the sounds of combat before they arrive; their pace slowly increasing as they get closer and closer, before breaking from the tree line and finding themselves in a clearing. The trees have been cleared in a large circle by the sheer malignant force of Dark corruption. Syndra can feel her heart begin to beat with excitement, the sheer energy flowing around her dangerously tempting. She lifts a dainty hand and snags one of the thinnest strands of magic streaming around them. Ecstasy erupts in her blood; her concentration slips and a purple spotlight turns to her, bathing the clearing in a baleful glow. She rubs her thighs together, gasping, seeking release; it would be easy to open herself fully to that overwhelming tide of Dark energy... She would be _complete,_ finally endless powerful, strong enough to... To what?

It is this second of consideration that saves Runeterra.

Lux places her hand on Syndra's hip, which is at shoulder height. The Sovereign sharply looks down at her, then seems to gather her wits. The thoughts she'd had... The glow about her only grows as more Dark pours into her soul; only now does she see the roiling sea, tsunamis sweeping across the landscape of her mind, trying to reach the Light far above. She stamps on the rebellious magic, crushing its flow. The temple grows closer and closer, arching spires and bladed parapets, a fortification so evil and malevolent it's cliché. Syndra tuts. Lux... Dread over comes her. She can feel that familiar pressure dampening her bright nature... A fear of her own power, her own glowing love. She shrinks back; her foot goes to take that first, fatal step, and this time it is her Dark lover who supports her. Syndra brushes a hand across Lux's cheek, smiling gently. Veins of vitriolic blight spread under Syndra's skin, her visage simply terrifying; yet to Lux it only reinforces her will. She takes a step, then another, and suddenly the dread shatters, like a thin wall of glass holding her back. Chin up, back straight, determined in look and action.

More corpses litter the ground here, but the gates still lie closed. The two visualize the Kinkou leaping, pivoting, gracefully landing on the other side. The Vastaya would make it more of a show, a mid-air dance as they ascended. But Syndra will not have a petty thing like a wall stop her. She does not accommodate any demand of her, even that by physical objects. Shattering the steel bastion that is the temple gate proves laughably easy; at this nexus of Dark magic, there is more than she can consider harnessing. The metal turns into a cloud of shards, a strange singing as they burrow into rock, flesh and hard iron, quivering. It is harmonised, a profane choir, by the deranged amusement of the Sovereign.

It is a good test of her strength; both literal and mental. Harnessing such energies requires immense effort and strains the body beyond compare; often she has heard of how spirits become so powerful, by breaking their fleshy shackles. She glances at Lux; she much prefers fleshy. Inside the gateway are a dozen late-acolytes, ingloriously killed by the shrapnel. Syndra's laughter increases, a small part of her concerned, the rest likely insane with the sheer _thrill_ of her untapped power. In the large, ringlike no-man's-land between the outer wall and the inner - smaller but sturdier - palisade, she can see their forces arrayed. It appears the Vastaya have brought allies, as a few dozen other of the animalistic people fight in tight lines while their two leaders rush and spin and dance amongst the enemy. The Kinkou are only visible by their handiwork; slit throats, burnt ground in lashes, and to Syndra's awakened eye, small tears in reality where the spirit realm bleeds through, left behind by Shen. There are hundreds, maybe thousands, of the shadow acolytes. Most are occupied with the Vastaya, who - while making a bloody carnival of their opponents - are being driven back. A cry goes up, and a full half split away to fight the Queen. Lux gulps, raising a weary hand, and Syndra waves her back. She leans forward against the air and accelerates like an arrow, soaring, a comet of annihilation. Her wake is deadly in and of itself, sending men flying. When they land, the skeletons left inside stand and attack their previous allies.

In a scant minute, her work done, laughter ringing around the impromptu graveyard, she moves to destroy those fighting against her Vastayan allies. With no time for thanks, she turns and burrows straight through the next wall, leaving a gaping, jagged hole. There are more here; tightly packed into rank and file, trained en-masse, emboldened by the souls of the dead and carrying weapons capable of severing a soul with a cut, swelled with dark beings and evil spirits, shadows that crawl and cackle.

They cannot imagine defeat, and Syndra laughs at their expectations, always one to disappoint.


End file.
